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33 


MODERN  GREEK  STORIES 


THE  INTERPRETERS'  SERIES 


MODERN  GREEK 
STORIES 


TRANSLATED  BY 

DEMETRA  VAKA 

AND 

ARISTIDES  PHOUTRIDES 

With  a  foreword  by 

DEMETRA  VAKA 


'   >  ,  »> 


J , ,  1 ,  >  '  i » 


J    J  3  >   ,  '3, 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1920.  by 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 


C  (         c      •    c  c 
c     «.      c     c    c  c 

c     .      f        C        C   C      «^ 


«    ■;     -    t     «  «^ 

«        C  *      *    '     *        c 


«     «       ,* «.    '     t    c  c 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


6\ 


To 

Those  American  Men  and  Women 
who  have  bound  themselves  to- 
gether in  the  society  of  FRIENDS 
OF  GREEK  WOMEN  this  volume 
is    dedicated    by    the    translators 


446al 


NOTE 

Of  the  writers  whose  stories  have  been  selected  for 
this  volume  of  translations,  Polylas,  Bizyenos,  and 
Papadiamantes  are  dead;  all  the  others  are  living. 
Without  exception,  they  have  cultivated  other  forms  of 
literary  expression  beside  the  short  story.  Most  of  them 
are  leading  figures  in  the  literary  world  of  Modern 
Greece.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  writers  of  the  '  *  Sin 
of  My  Mother"  and  of  ''The  Frightened  Soul"  come 
from  Thrace,  the  original  home  of  the  cult  of  Dionysus 
and  of  the  Drama,  which  after  almost  five  hundred  years 
of  Turkish  misrule  is  to  return  to  Greece  again.  Chrono- 
logically, Polylas'  "Forgiveness"  is  the  oldest  story  in 
the  collection ;  the  most  recent  is  ' '  The  Frightened  Soul, ' ' 
which  appeared  in  the  pages  of  a  Greek  magazine  in 
Constantinople,  started  after  the  occupation  of  the  city 
by  the  Allies  in  1918. 

Demetra  Vaka  translated  "The  Sin  of  My  Mother," 
"The  God-Father"  and  "She  That  Was  Homesick." 
The  rest  were  translated  by  Dr.  Aristides  E.  Phoutrides. 

The  translators  wish  to  express  their  gratitude  to 
Professors  Socrates  Kugeas  and  Andreas  Andreades  of 
the  University  of  Athens  for  the  generous  assistance  they 
rendered  by  providing  most  of  the  material  from  which 
the  selections  were  made,  and  to  Mr.  Kenneth  Brown  for 
editing  the  whole  book. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword 3 

Sea 23 

The  Sin  of  My  Mother 57 

The  God-Father 93 

Mangalos 105 

Forgiveness 133 

Angelica 157 

A  Man's  Death 1'73 

The  Frightened  Soul 221 

She  That  Was  Homesick 237 


MODERN  GREEK  STORIES 


FOREWORD 

It  may  fairly  be  said  of  modern  Greece  that  she  owes 
her  independence  to  the  enthusiasm  and  inspiration  of 
her  poets  and  other  writers.  When  the  Hellenic  civi- 
lization of  the  middle  ages  fell  under  the  yoke  of  an 
Asiatic  conqueror,  when  Constantinople,  the  last  hold 
of  the  Greek  race,  was  taken  by  the  Turks  in  1453,  the 
Greeks  seemed  to  have  come  ta  an  end.  Indeed,  for 
years  they  were  so  absolutely  under  the  heel  of  the 
Turkish  conqueror  that  the  thought  of  ever  freeing  them- 
selves must  have  seemed  to  them  a  dream  beyond  the 
possibility  of  realization,  especially  since  at  that  time 
the  whole  of  Europe  was  trembling  before  the  all-con- 
qtiering  Moslem. 

Yet,  gradually,  unknown  Greek  poets  began  to  write, 
or  rather  to  compose,  songs  of  patriotism,  which  were 
repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth ;  and  the  youngsters  were 
taught  by  their  illiterate  mothers  the  songs  of  these 
unknown  bards,  while  look-outs  were  posted  on  the 
thresholds  of  the  doors  to  guard  against  their  being 
overheard.  Thus,  after  the  first  hundred  years  of 
slavery  the  descendants  of  the  Hellenes  felt  less  hope- 
lessly under  the  heel  of  their  conqueror,  and  began  to 

3 


4  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

walk  less  timorously,  because  along  with  them,  walked 
Hope,  infused  in  them  by  their  poets.  It  was  the  power 
and  fervor  of  their  poems  which  presently  inspired  some 
of  the  more  adventurous  young  men  to  take  to  the  moun- 
tains to  form  themselves  into  revolutionary  bands,  to 
drill,  and  to  prepare  their  infinitesmal  strength  to  revolt 
against  the  mightiest  empire  then  in  existence.  Half 
brigands,  and  wholly  patriotic,  they  drilled  and  exer- 
cised in  their  remote  fastnesses,  and  instituted  petty 
guerrilla  warfare  against  the  Turks,  which  must  have 
seemed  as  preposterous,  at  first,  as  the  attack  of  a 
mosquito  on  a  rhinoceros. 

To  the  western  educated  world.  Mount  Olympus  is 
known  as  the  abode  of  the  gods  of  Ancient  Greece.  To 
the  Greeks  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries, 
Mount  Olympus  became  the  shrine  whereon  the  fires  of 
hope  and  patriotism  were  kept  alive.  And  if  in  the 
days  of  Greece's  glory,  Mount  Olympus  had  been  in- 
habited by  imaginary  gods,  the  creations  of  Greek 
imagination,  during  the  dark  and  bitter  days  of  her 
slavery,  the  holy  mountain  became  the  abode  of  the 
forerunners  of  her  rebirth. 

To  that  mountain  at  first  resorted  a  few — then  more 
and  more,  until  it  became  the  one  stronghold  for  free- 
dom, the  one  independent  state  in  the  mighty  Turkish 
Empire;  and  there  those  modern  Greeks,  mostly  illiter- 
ate, though  still  intellectual,  led  a  life  totally  apart  from 
the  Turks,  with  the  games  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  to  keep 


FOREWOED  5 

their  bodies  fit,  and  with  their  historical  traditions  to 
keep  their  minds  fit.  There,  those  who  had  education, 
initiated  the  others  into  the  past  grandeur  of  their  race ; 
and  those  who  could  create,  composed  the  great  ballads 
of  patriotism  wrought  with  hope,  which  are  among  the 
proudest  achievements  of  the  Hellenic  race. 

These  modem  Greeks  had  their  leaders,  their  teach- 
ers, and  above  all,  their  bards.  And  up  there,  in  the 
air  of  that  free  and  holy  mountain,  inspired  by  its 
grandeur,  they  created  their  songs  and  set  them  to 
music.  Then  youths,  disguised  as  beggars,  went  down 
from  Mount  Olympus  and  trudged  from  place  to  place, 
singing  their  songs  to  their  fellow-countrymen,  making 
recruits,  and  preparing  the  people  for  the  revolution  to 
come.  Thus,  through  the  power  of  poetry,  hope  was 
kept  alive  in  the  breasts  of  the  much-tried  race. 

Gradually  the  ej'-es  of  the  whole  of  enslaved  Greece 
looked  toward  Mount  Olympus  with  worship  and  exalta- 
tion ;  and  presently  even  the  Turks  began  to  respect  the 
mountain,  since  the  detachments  of  soldiers  they  sent 
against  it  were  constantly  defeated  on  its  precipitous 
slopes.  After  a  while  they  ceased  the  thankless  task, 
and  left  it  alone. 

During  this  time  the  women  of  Greece  played  their 
part  well,  since  to  them  was  entrusted  the  work  of 
instilling  in  the  minds  of  the  little  children  the  songs 
that  came  down  from  the  twice  sacred  mountain.  Among 
those  who  were  brought  up  under  the  inspiration  of 


6  MODERN   GEEEK   STOEIES 

this  laic  poetry  was  Eigas  Phereos,  the  greatest  of  all 
the  poets  of  enslaved  Greece,  Eigas  was  born  in  1752, 
in  Thessaly,  where  the  cruelty  of  the  Turks  was  at  its 
worst.  He  must  have  been  an  exceptional  child,  as 
later  he  became  an  exceptional  and  extraordinary  man ; 
for  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  had  finished  his  studies 
at  home  and  abroad,  and,  imbued  by  his  mother  with 
the  inspiration  of  the  idea  of  independence,  he  at  first 
went  to  Mount  Athos,  the  mountain  whereon  are  the 
Greek  monasteries.  When,  from  the  highest  summit, 
Eigas  looked  down  upon  the  lands  of  ancient  Greece — 
kept  in  ignorance  and  squalor  by  a  cruel  conqueror — 
he  wept.  Then,  wiping  away  his  tears,  he  cried  aloud: 
"This  is  no  time  for  tears,  but  time  for  action." 
He  left  the  monasteries,  and  set  out  for  Mount 
Olympus.  His  fame  as  a  poet  had  preceded  him,  and 
he  received  a  great  ovation.  Among  the  leaders  were 
members  of  his  own  family,  who  made  much  of  the 
young  bard  with  his  foreign  education.  He  remained 
with  the  outlaws,  learning  what  they  had  to  teach,  and 
drilling  with  them.  One  day,  when  each  bard  had  sung 
his  fiery  song,  one  of  them  turned  to  Eigas,  and  asked 
him  to  improvise.  Inspired  by  his  surroundings,  Eigas, 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  created  what  was  to  become 
one  of  the  trumpet  songs  of  his  struggling  race.  He 
apostraphised  the  leaders  thus: 

* '  How  long,  oh,  my  brave  ones,  shall  we  live  in  narrow 
confines,  alone,  like  lions  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountain? 


FOREWORD  7 

How  long  shall  we  inhabit  caves,  our  only  outlook  the 
tops  of  the  trees  beneath  us?  How  long  shall  we  hav€ 
to  abandon  the  world  in  order  to  be  free?  For  how 
long  shall  we  leave  behind  our  Fatherland,  our  brothers 
and  parents,  our  friends,  our  offspring,  and  our  rela- 
tives? Better  one  hour's  freedom  than  forty  years' 
slavery  and  prison ! ' ' 

Then,  making  an  appeal  to  all  the  men  present,  he 
cried : 

''Your  mother-country  is  calling  you.  She  needs  you 
and  longs  for  you,  and  with  a  mother's  anguish  is  ask- 
ing for  your  help." 

The  poem  is  lengthy  and  fiery,  and  in  the  midst  of 
it  once  more  he  turns  to  the  leaders,  and,  referring  to 
the  dissensions  among  the  various  factions — that  curse 
of  Greece  at  all  times — he  cried: 

*  *  Come  at  this  chosen  hour,  and  let  us  take  oath  upon 
the  cross  to  choose  wise  and  patriotic  counsellors.  We 
must  have  law  and  order  amongst  ourselves,  and  for 
our  Motherland's  sake,  we  must  appoint  but  one  chief." 

.^nd  that  seventeen-year-old  boy  went  on  to  say  these 
remarkable  words: 

**For  anarchy  is  another  form  of  slavery,  and  if  we 
live  like  wild  beasts,  we  shall  be  consumed  in  vain." 

The  poem  grows  more  religious,  and  at  the  end  comes 
the  oath:  ''Oh,  King  of  the  Universe,  to  Thee  I  swear 
never  to  submit  to  the  will  of  the  tyrant ;  never  to  work 
for  him,  nor  to  be  deceived  by  him ;  and  not  to  be  seduced 


8  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

by  liis  promises  and  bribes.  So  long  as  I  live  on  this 
earth  my  one  aim  shall  be  his  destruction.  Faithful  to 
my  Motherland  I  must  break  his  yoke,  and  always  fight 
by  the  side  and  under  the  orders  of  my  leader.  And 
if  I  do  not  keep  the  oath,  let  the  lightning  from  heaven 
fall  and  turn  me  to  ashes!'* 

.  All  on  the  mountain  took  the  oath,  and  Rigas,  kissing 
the  leader,  went  away,  and  journeyed  from  place  to 
place,  trumpeting  his  song.  I  believe  that  every  Greek 
child  was  taught  the  oath,  as  soon  as  it  could  under- 
stand and  memorize  it. 

In  Constantinople  Rigas  asked  an  audience  of  the 
great  Greek,  Ypsilanthy,  and  when  he  was  in  his  pres- 
ence, he  spoke  of  the  oath.  He  must  have  been  a  very 
convincing  person,  this  young  Rigas,  for  Ypsilanthy  took 
him  for  his  secretary,  and  the  two  worked  together  to 
spread  the  movement  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Turkish 
capital.  After  a  while  he  left  Constantinople  and  went 
from  place  to  place,  working  with  pen  and  word  for 
the  revolt  against  Turkey.  So  great  was  his  power  that 
rich  Greeks  everywhere  gave  him  their  fortunes  for 
the  cause,  and  followed  him  themselves. 

In  Valachia  and  Moldavia  (present  Roumania),  then 
rich  Greek  centres,  Rigas  formed  the  "National  Organi- 
zation," which  became  later  the  sustaining  heart  of  the 
revolution.  From  there  he  went  to  Austria,  where  many 
rich  Greek  merchants  dwelt,  and  while  in  Vienna  he 
had  his  work  printed  for  the  first  time.     From  there 


FOREWORD  9 

he  wrote  to  Napoleon,  the  all-powerful  Buonaparte,  then 
in  Venice,  and  asked  for  his  military  aid.  Eloquently 
he  pictured  what  an  achievement  it  would  be  to  free 
Greece  from  the  Turk.  With  his  letter  he  sent  a  cigar- 
ette case  made  from  the  wood  of  a  laurel  tree  which 
had  grown  close  to  the  temple  of  Apollo. 

Napoleon  was  pleased,  both  with  the  gift  and  the 
letter,  and  invited  young  Rigas  to  go  to  see  him  in 
Venice.  On  his  way,  his  books  and  his  correspondence 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Austrian  government.  The 
immediate  arrest  and  trial  of  Rigas  and  his  adherents 
followed.  That  was  in  1797.  As  far  back  as  that, 
Austria  was  scheming  to  conquer  the  Balkans,  establish 
herself  in  Saloniea,  and  from  there  prepare  for  the 
capture  of  Constantinople.  The  rebirth  of  Greece,  the 
real  claimant  to  the  Ottoman  Empire,  was  not  at  all 
to  the  liking  of  Austria,  and  naturally  a  man  like  Rigas 
was  looked  upon  as  a  destructive  and  pernicious  in- 
fluence against  Austria's  imperialistic  designs. 

The  trial  of  Rigas  stirred  the  Greeks  all  over  the 
world,  and  the  defence  he  made  was  magnificent.  "All 
these  poems,  all  these  writings  are  mine,"  he  acknowl- 
edged. **I  produced  them  for  the  sake  of  my  race,  and 
since  I  could  not  print  them  where  barbarous  tyrants 
live,  I  came  here  to  this  enlightened,  Christian  nation 
to  publish  them.  And  that  I  might  not  involve  the 
Austrian  government  in  any  way,  I  had  the  printing 
done  secretly,  in  the  dead  of  night.     I  cannot  dream 


10  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

that  your  Emperor  Avill  stand  against  the  freeing  of  a 
formerly  glorious  race  which  today  lies  under  the  heel 
of  a  barbarous  conqueror." 

In  spite  of  this  defence,  Austria  found  Rigas  guilty, 
and  he  and  his  companions  were  surrendered  to  the 
Turk. 

The  European  press  protested;  the  rich  Greeks  all 
over  the  world  offered  fabulous  sums  for  his  freedom; 
but  the  chancelleries  of  Europe  remained  mute.  In  1797 
men  like  Rigas  were  looked  upon  with  disfavor  by  the 
governing  classes,  because  each  great  nation  had  alien 
subject  races  of  its  own,  and  there  was  no  telling  where 
the  spirit  of  freedom  might  break  out  next. 

Prom  Trieste  the  condemned  Greeks  were  taken  cap- 
tive to  Turkey,  and  while  passing  through  Belgrade, 
their  guards,  hearing  that  Greek  bands  were  going  to 
attempt  their  rescue,  decided  to  put  them  to  death. 

"You  may  kill  me!"  Rigas  cried,  as  the  guards  were 
about  to  behead  him,    *'I  have  sown:  others  will  reap." 

He  was  killed  in  1798,  on  the  29th  of  May,  which 
happened  to  be  the  anniversary  of  the  fall  of  Con- 
stantinople, and  in  that  year  in  which  Rigas  died,  an- 
other great  Greek  poet  was  born,  Solomos,  who  was 
some  day  to  write : 

"Take  Greece  to  your  heart,  and  you  will  feel  gi'an- 
deur  quivering  in  you." 

While  in  his  teens,  Solomos  took  up  the  work  of 
Rigas,  and  one  of  his  great  poems  not  only  was  the 


FOREWORD  11 

inspiration  of  the  revolution,  but  is  today  the* national 
hymn  of  free  Greece.  Solomos  was  the  most  fortunate  of 
his  country's  poets,  since  during  his  life  the  struggle 
for  freedom  came.  The  revolution  started  in  1821,  and 
ended  in  1829,  and  during  those  years  deeds  were  per- 
formed which  not  only  equal  those  of  ancient  Greece, 
but  often  surpass  them.  In  those  nine  years  the  blood 
of  the  best  was  shed,  their  capital  was  spent,  their  build- 
ings were  destroyed.  The  land  was  as  devastated  as 
part  of  France  is  today,  and  long  years  of  toil .  were 
required  to  restore  its  fertility. 

But  all  that  was  nothing  compared  with  the  wrong 
juerpetrated  upon  the  Greek  people  by  the  so-called 
great  Christian  Powers.  Self  appointed  arbiters,  they 
decided — after  the  Greeks  had  fought  with  the  most 
heroic  desperation  for  eight  long  years — that  more  than 
two-thirds  of  the  land  in  revolt  should  be  returned  to 
the  kind  ministration  of  the  Turk — as  again  today  they 
are  considering  retaining  him  in  Constantinople. 

What  was  permitted  to  become  free  Greece  in  1830 
was  hardly  a  nation.  It  consisted  of  less  than  three 
quarters  of  a  million  people,  and  a  tract  of  land  of 
less  than  fifty  thousand  square  miles.  Greece  was  freed, 
— ^but  the  fertile  Greek  lands,  the  commercial  centres, 
the  ports,  the  industries,  the  granaries,  the  rich  islands, 
all  were  returned  to  the  Turk,  and  millions  and  millions 
of  Greeks  were  forced  to  remain  under  the  Asiatic  yoke, 
because  those  great  Christian  powers  themselves  wanted 


12  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

ultimately  to  possess  the  heritage  of  Greece,  They 
wronged  the  Greek  people  in  1830 — they  have  ever  con- 
sidered the  rights  of  little  nations  as  subservient  to  their 
own  interests,  and  for  this  policy  France  and  England 
have  paid  from  1914  to  1919  with  the  best  of  their  blood, 
while  Austria  and  Russia,  the  greater  culprits,  have 
seen  their  own  dissolution  the  price  they  have  had  to 
pay  for  their  cruel  selfishness.  Had  Europe  been 
merely  just  to  the  Greek  people,  and  to  the  other  small, 
struggling  nations,  many  of  the  subsequent  wars  would 
have  been  avoided,  with  their  following  unjust  peace 
arrangements;  and  the  great  world  war  itself  would 
have  been  impossible,  because,  although  it  is  true  that 
Germany  started  the  war  in  1914,  that  war  had  been 
prepared  by  all  the  great  powers,  by  the  treaty  of 
Berlin  in  1878. 

Greece  was  free,  but  there  was  nothing  in  it  with 
which  to  start  life — ^nothing,  except  that  pile  of  ruins 
on  the  Acropolis  for  which  men  had  given  their  blood, 
and  to  which  all  through  the  ages  every  enlightened 
soul  had  turned  for  inspiration.  Yes,  such  as  she  was, 
there  was  a  free  Greece,  and  after  four  centuries  of 
slavery,  the  Acropolis  was  Greek  once  more,  and  three- 
quarters  of  a  million  Greeks  were  able  to  breathe  freely, 
and  openly  to  study  their  own  history.  True,  most  of 
the  great  leaders  had  been  killed;  others  were  maimed 
and  useless;  while  the  rest  bowed  their  heads  with  the 
black  despair  born  from  injustice. 


FOREWORD  13 

No  gold  was  sent  in  from  sympathetic  nations  to  re- 
build Greece.  There  were  no  funds  raised  for  her  or- 
phans— no  Red  Cross  appropriations,  no  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
help — nothing  at  all.  And  there  are  people  who  dare 
to  say  that  the  world  has  not  advanced. 

In  1830  there  was  no  conscience  in  Europe,  and 
Greece  was  left  to  stand  solitary  in  her  own  destitution 
free,  and  dazed — dazed  not  only  at  her  freedom  after 
centuries  of  slavery,  but  dazed  at  her  own  confines. 
Hers  was  the  fate  to  keep  her  eyes  lowered,  if  they  were 
to  be  kept  in  her  own  frontiers.  If  she  lifted  them  ever 
so  slightly,  she  saw  her  own  lands  in  slavery,  her  en- 
slaved children  stretching  their  hands  toward  her,  im- 
ploring her  to  break  their  chains  and  make  them  free. 
Is  it  a  wonder,  then,  that  small,  weak,  and  dazed,  she 
has  still  been  forced  to  fight,  and  fight,  and  always  to 
fight,  ever  since  1821  ? 

Yet,  along  with  the  fighting,  schools  began  to  be  built 
everywhere,  and  the  people  once  more  could  openly  take 
their  children  to  Greek  schools  on  free  Greek  soil.  The 
illiteracy,  which  was  appalling,  began  to  disappear,  and 
once  more  the  Greeks  could  read  and  write,  and  those 
who  lived  in  other  countries  and  were  rich,  sent  money 
back,  and  so  Greece,  instead  of  dying — as  some  of  the 
great  powers  hoped  she  would — was  actually  beginning 
to  prosper. 

Although  they  had  nothing  to  start  their  housekeep- 
ing with  they  had  the  Acropolis  to  guide  and  sustain 


14  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

them.  They  had  the  Past,  and  that  past  lighted  the  way 
to  the  Future. 

Unfortunately  for  Greece,  a  king  was  selected  by 
Europe  to  govern  her,  a  king  who  was  a  Bavarian,  a 
kindly  soul,  but  a  foreigner  who  brought  with  him  his 
foreign  queen.  Neither  understood  the  Greek  language, 
nor  the  Greeks,  who,  though  illiterate,  were  steeped  in 
glorious  traditions.  And  along  with  Otto  of  Bavaria 
and  his  German  queen,  came  the  Bavarians,  who  occu- 
pied the  big  positions  in  Greece,  and  in  the  wake  of 
the  king  and  his  consort  came  the  representatives  of  the 
powers  with  secretaries  and  clerks. 

They  were  different,  those  first  free  Greeks,  from  the 
Europeans  who  came  either  to  rale  them  or  to  influence 
their  political  affiliations.  They  felt  the  difference  that 
existed  between  them  and  their  guests,  and,  being  proud 
and  sensitive,  they  suffered  acutely.  Just  let  the  imagi- 
nation dwell  a  little  on  what  took  place:  on  the  one 
side  the  foreigner,  supercilious,  critical,  bent  on  playing 
his  political  game ;  on  the  other  the  Greek,  uneducated, 
crude,  conscious  of  his  past  grandeur,  conscious  of  his 
mentality,  conscious  of  his  gifts,  and,  above  all,  con- 
scious of  the  littleness  of  his  present. 

It  is  not  possible  in  a  preface  to  enter  upon  the  long 
anguish  of  the  first  three-quarters  of  a  million.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  they  did  not  like  to  be  thought  uncivilized 
by  the  court  and  the  diplomatic  circle.  With  the  unre- 
strained  abilities   of   precocious   children,   they   threw 


FOREWORD  15 

themselves  into  the  process  of  becoming  Enropeanized. 
Foreign  governesses  swarmed,  and  the  children  of  the 
Hellenes  began  to  be  brought  up  no  longer  by  the  trum- 
pet-songs of  Mount  Olympus  but  by  creations  of  alien 
minds  and  alien  aspirations.  Gradually  a  royalist  class 
grew  up  around  the  court  and  in  the  big  cities,  which 
was  truly  a  slave  class.  When  they  were  slaves,  the 
Hellenes  had  been  free,  since  they  adhered  passionately 
to  their  language  and  to  their  national  traditions.  Free, 
under  a  foreign  king,  they  became  slaves  to  foreign 
influences.  The  upper  classes  now  neglected  their  own 
traditions.  They  spoke  French  and  English  and  Ger- 
man, and  knew  the  literature  of  those  countries  better 
than  their  own.  It  was  a  phase  through  which  they  had 
to  go.    Alas!  it  has  lasted  too  long. 

Yet,  while  the  better  classes  were  eagerly  European- 
izing  themselves,  the  native  life  was  growing  stronger 
and  healthier.  Schools  multiplied  everywhere,  and  per- 
haps there  is  no  country  in  the  world  which  has  so 
many  newspapers  and  so  many  newspaper  readers. 
Athens  has  250,000  inhabitants,  and  250  publications 
a  week.  Peasants  will  walk  miles,  or  flag  the  trains,  to 
obtain  their  newspapers.  The  quality  of  the  editorials 
is  excellent.  And  so  esteemed  is  a  writer  in  Greece  that 
he  expects  little  pecuniary  gain.  The  fact  that  he  can- 
not hope  to  make  a  living  from  literature  has  never 
prevented  the  Greek  from  writing,  and  thus  modern 
Greece  has  always  had  an  abundance  of  both  poets  and 


16  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

prose  writers.  This  little  volume  gives  a  good  average 
of  modern  Greek  short  stories.  If  no  woman's  name 
appears  it  is  not  that  the  women  of  Greece  are  not  writ- 
ing, but  that  we  have  had  to  choose  from  what  was  at 
hand.  Indeed,  some  of  the  best  work  has  come  from 
the  pens  of  women,  such  as  Madame  Parren,  editor  and 
publisher  of  the  Ephemeris  ton  Kyrion,  in  Athens,  and 
whose  novel,  "The  Emancipated,"  in  spite  of  its  short- 
comings, is  one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best  of  modern 
Greek  novels.  Another  woman.  Mile.  Zographo,  pub- 
lisher and  editor  of  the  Helleniki  EpitJieorisis,  has  also 
written  some  very  able  and  graphic  short  stories  and 
plays.  And  readers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  are  fa- 
miliar with  the  charm  of  style  and  beauty  of  narrative 
of  Mme.  Julia  Dragoumis. 

The  Hellenic  race  has  ever  been  intellectual,  and  to 
express  itself  is  one  of  its  greatest  necessities.  Thus, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Greece  has  most  of  the  time 
been  at  war,  for  the  sake  of  her  enslaved  children,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  writing  does  not  pay  in  Greece, 
men  and  women  wrote,  depicting  life  around  them,  and 
the  life  of  the  sea.  Many  of  them  also  devoted  them- 
selves to  translating  the  masterpieces  of  Europe,  for 
the  education  of  those  of  their  race  who  could  not  read 
the  originals.  Shakespeare  had  several  translators,  and 
the  Greeks  enjoy  him  on  the  stage  immensely,  because 
he  resembles  their  own  classics. 

Although  Greece  has  been  free  less  than  a  hundred 


FOREWORD  17 

years,  and  during  that  time  has  had  to  eradicate  the 
illiteracy  forced  on  them  by  the  Turk,  and  to  scratch 
hard  for  a  living,  the  literary  genius  of  the  people  de- 
veloped steadily.  She  had  her  serious  writers  and  her 
comic  writers,  and,  above  all,  her  satirists.  The  leader 
of  the  last  was  Kokkos,  who,  like  Aristophanes,  ridiculed 
on  the  stage  the  weaknesses  of  his  fellow-countrymen, 
especially  their  passion  for  aping  the  Europeans.  His 
plays  were  in  the  form  of  musical  comedies,  and  one  of 
them,  "Maroula,"  became  so  popular  that  amateur  com- 
panies played  it  all  over  free  and  enslaved  Greece.  Half 
a  dozen  companies  gave  it  in  Constantinople  and  its 
suburbs  alone,  and  gave  it  well,  too. 

For  his  satire,  Kokkos  paid  with  his  life.  A  soldier 
shot  and  killed  him  as  he  was  coming  out  of  a  theatre 
where  one  of  his  comedies  had  been  satirizing  the  army. 

Athens  has  also  the  unique  distinction  of  having  pos- 
sessed for  nearly  half  a  century  a  satirical  publication 
written  entirely  in  verse.  Its  name  was  Romeos,  an 
appellation  like  ' '  Yankee. ' '  It  announced  that  it  would 
be  published  once  a  week,  on  whatever  day  it  pleased 
to  appear,  and  that  it  would  accept  as  subscribers  only 
those  whom  it  liked.  This  was  more  than  a  mere  form, 
and  it  refused  to  deliver  Romeos  to  many  public  men, 
whom  it  did  not  like,  and  even  to  the  Palace  itself ;  and 
these  disliked  ones  were  obliged  to  buy  it  in  the  street, 
since  everyone  read  it. 

It  was  written  in  the  vernacular,  and  always  con- 


18  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

tained  the  dialop:ue  between  two  characters,  Fasonlis 
and  Pcricletos,  predecessors  of  Mr.  Dooley  and  Mr.  Ilen- 
nesey.  The  satirical  little  sheet  became  the  delight  and 
dread  of  modern  Greece;  for  Romcos  spared  no  one.  Ilis 
satire  was  clean-cut  and  to  the  point,  and  the  Danish 
dynasty,  which  replaced  the  Bavarian  in  1863,  came  in 
for  its  share  of  ridicule.  In  1897,  during?  that  unfor- 
tunate war  against  the  Turk  when  Const^ntine,  then 
Crown  Prince,  led  his  armies  always  to  retreat,  Romeos 
depicted  him,  in  one  of  its  crade  lampoons,  as  standing 
in  the  midst  of  his  women  folk,  being  adorned  for  the 
fray.    And  a  little  verse  underneath  began  : 

"They  dressed  him,  they  combed  him,  they  made  him 
look  brave,"  and  ended  up  bitingly  that  when  he  saw 
the  firing,  he  scooted  for  mother  and  home. 

Many  a  time  the  office  of  Romeos  was  wrecked,  either 
by  enraged  army  officers,  or  by  susceptible  politicians; 
but  Souris,  owner,  creator,  and  typesetter  of  Romcos,  in- 
domitably put  his  house  in  order,  and  reappeared  with 
his  weekly. 

He  made  light  of  all  his  country's  misfortunes,  as 
if  realizing  that  the  burden  was  too  great  for  the  little 
race,  and  that  to  keep  up  its  courage  it  needed  humor. 
He  has  just  died,  when  it  looks  as  if  Greece  at  last  had 
a  chance  of  gathering  under  her  flag  the  major  part  of 
the  lands  inhabited  by  her  children.  Then  Souris  will 
not  be  needed  to  lighten  the  sorrow  of  his  countrymen 
with  his  dry  wit.     Let  us  hope  that  the  intrigues  of 


FOREWORD  19 

the  big  nations  will  not  foster  new  injustices  to  the  small, 
and  that  Greece,  no  longer  harassed  by  wars,  and  by 
the  lack  of  everything  that  feeds  a  nation,  united  at  last, 
free  to  develop  her  gifts  and  to  follow  her  great  tradi- 
tions, will  rise  once  more  and,  to  use  Mr.  Venizelos's 
words,  will  surprise  those  who  look  on  her  today  with 
mistrust  and  suspicion. 

At  any  rate,  such  as  Greece  is,  she  has  given  to  the 
world  Mr.  Venizelos  in  her  political  life,  and  has  pro- 
duced Mr.  Karkavitsas  in  her  literature.  A  nation  that 
can  do  this  must  be  a  nation  with  a  future. 


SEA 

By  a.  Kakkavitsas 


SEA 

My  father — ^may  the  wave  that  buried  him  be  holy 
oil  for  him — never  meant  to  make  a  sailor  of  me. 

*'Keep  away,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "keep  away  from  the 
lying  monster!  She  has  no  faith  nor  mercy.  Worship 
her  as  you  will — honor  her — she  never  moves  from  her 
own  aim.  Don't  look  at  her  deceiving  smile,  promising 
her  countless  wealth.  Sooner  or  later  she  will  dig  a 
grave  for  you,  or  she  will  cast  you  on  the  world  a  useless 
ruin,  with  nothing  to  own  but  your  skin  and  bones.  Sea 
or  woman — it's  all  the  same!'* 

These  were  the  words  of  a  man  who  had  spent  a  whole 
life  on  a  ship's  deck,  a  man  whose  father  and  grand- 
father and  great-grandfather  had  died  by  the  mast. 
And  he  was  nat  alone  of  this  opinion.  The  other  old 
men  of  the  island,  veterans  of  the  ships,  and  the  younger 
people  whose  hands  were  still  callous,  whenever  they 
took  their  seats  in  the  coffee-house  to  smoke  their  water 
pipes,  would  waggle  their  heads  sadly  and  say  with  a 
sigh: 

"There's  no  more  bread  to  be  gained  from  the  sea. 
Let  me  have  just  a  root  of  vine  on  the  solid  earth  and 
I  would  throw  a  black  stone  behind  me.'* 

23 


24  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

The  truth  was  that  many  of  them  had  money  enough 
to  own  not  only  a  vine  but  a  whole  island.  Yet  they 
would  spend  it  all  on  the  sea.  They  competed  against 
each  other  to  see  who  could  build  the  biggest  vessel  or 
who  would  be  a  captain  first.  I,  who  often  heard  their 
words  and  saw  their  acts,  contrary  and  inconsistent 
with  their  words,  could  not  understand  the  mys- 
tery. 

Some  God's  breath,  I  said  to  myself,  some  power  sent 
from  infinity  was  coming  down  to  drag  with  it 
all  those  souls  and  hurl  them  captives  against  their  wills 
into  the  open  sea,  just  as  the  raging  north  wind  beating 
on  the  bare  cliffs  bites  off  the  weathered  pieces  and  hurls 
them  down  in  a  mass  of  fragments. 

But  the  same  impulse  was  pushing  me,  too,  that  way. 
Ever  since  my  childhood  days,  I  loved  the  sea.  You 
might  say  I  took  my  first  steps  in  the  water.  My  first 
play  was  a  box  of  beans  with  a  little  stick  set  up  in 
the  center  for  a  mast,  with  two  pieces  of  thread  for 
hawsers  and  a  sheet  of  paper  for  a  sail,  and  my  imagi- 
nation made  of  this  little  box  a  triple-decked  bark.  I 
put  it  to  sea  vnth  emotion,  and  imagined  myself  in  it. 
Of  course,  as  soon  as  I  took  my  hand  off,  my  bark  sank 
to  the  bottom,  but  I  was  not  slow  in  building  another 
of  timber.  My  dockyard  was  at  the  little  harbor  of 
St.  Nicholas.  I  put  my  boat  to  sea  and  I  followed  it, 
gwimming  to  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  where  the  cur- 
rent swept  it  far  away  from  me.    Later  I  became  first 


SEA  25 

in  rowing  and  first  in  swimming.  All  I  lacked  was  a 
fish's  scales. 

"Bravo!"  said  the  old  sailors  to  me  with  their  good- 
natured  smiles  as  they  saw  me  ripping  the  water  like 
a  dolphin.    "You  will  put  us  aU i;o  shame!" 

I  was  proud  because  of  these  words  and  I  hoped  that 
some  day  I  would  fulfill  their  prophesy.  I  remember 
it  was  my  seventh  year  at  school  when  I  closed  my  books 
forever.  I  found  nothing  in  them  that  would  respond 
to  my  longings,  while  everything  else  about  me,  living 
or  not,  whispered  to  me  a  thousand  tales:  The  sailors 
with  their  faces  bronzed  by  the  sun;  the  old  men  with 
their  reminiscences;  the  piled  timber  with  its  story 
told  at  sight;  the  lasses  with  their  songs: 

"How  handsome  is  my  little  mate  when  wet  with  the 
sea-spray, 
Puts  on  his  change  of  snow-white  clothes  and  takes 
the  helm  in  hand." 

This  song  I  heard  ever  since  my  cradle  days  and  it 
seemed  to  me  like  a  hymn  sung  by  my  island  to  lure 
its  inhabitants  to  the  life  of  the  sea.  My  dream,  too, 
was  some  day  to  be  a  mate  and,  wet  with  the  sea  spray, 
to  hold  the  helm  in  hand.  Surely  I  would  be  handsome 
then  and  strong — a  real  man.  I  would  be  the  pride 
of  my  island  and  I  would  be  loved  by  every  lass. 

Yes,  I  did  love  the  sea!    At  times  I  saw  her  spreading 


26  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

from  the  headland  far  away  and  mingling  with  the  blue 
firmament,  like  a  sapphire  floor,  smooth,  calm  and  silent 
with  a  secret  that  I  longed  to  know.  At  times  I  saw  her 
mad,  spattering  the  shore  angrily  with  white  foam, 
toppling  over  the  reefs,  scaling  the  caves  of  the  great 
rocks  with  a  restless  thundering  roar  as  if  she  sought 
to  penetrate  the  earth's  fiery  womb  and  to  extinguish 
the  flames  that  burned  there.  This  intoxicated  me,  and 
I  ran  to  play  with  her,  to  make  her  angry  and  provoke 
her,  so  that  she  might  rush  against  me  and  chase  me, 
and  lash  my  body  with  her  spray — tease  her  as  we  like 
to  tease  wild  beasts  bound  with  chains.  Then,  when 
I  saw  a  ship  lifting  anchor  and  sailing  out  of  the  harbor 
into  the  open  sea,  and  heard  the  cheering  chanties  of  the 
sailors  laboring  at  the  capstan  sheets  and  the  farewells 
of  the  women,  my  soul  would  fly  like  a  lonely  bird  after 
it.  The  sails  of  dark  gray,  swelling  with  the  wind,  the 
stays  stretching  like  delicate  lines  against  the  horizon, 
the  golden  trucks  leaving  behind  them  a  trail  of  light  in 
the  blue  sky  called  out  to  me  to  go  with  them,  promising 
new  lands,  new  men,  riches,  joys,  strange  kisses  that, 
though  I  knew  it  not,  were  stored  in  my  heart  as  the 
inherited  pleasures  of  my  fathers.  So,  day  and  night, 
my  soul  longed  for  nothing  else  but  the  day  of  sailing 
away.  Even  when  the  news  of  a  shipwreck  reached 
the  island,  and  the  death  of  the  drowned  men  lay  heavy 
on  everybody's  heart,  and  silent  grief  spread  from  the 
frowning  faces  to  the  inanimate  pebbles  of  the  beach, 


SEA  27 

even  when  I  met  the  orphans  of  the  dead  in  the  streets, 
like  gilded  pieces  of  wood  among  the  ruins  of  a  once 
prosperous  home,  and  saw  the  women  clothed  in  black, 
and  the  bereaved  sweethearts  left  disconsolate,  and  heard 
the  survivors  of  the  shipwreck  tell  of  their  misfortune, 
even  then  I  was  soriy  and  jealous  that  I  had  not  been 
with  them  to  see  my  own  sweetheart  in  her  wild  majesty 
and  to  wrestle  with  her,  wrestle  unto  death. 

At  last  I  could  no  longer  control  myself.  My  father 
had  sailed  away  with  his  schooner.  My  uncle,  Kalli- 
geres,  was  just  about  to  set  sail  for  the  Black  Sea.  I  fell 
on  his  neck;  and  my  mother,  too,  fearing  I  might  get 
sick,  intervened  in  my  behalf.  He  consented  to  take  me 
along. 

"I  will  take  you,"  he  said,  "but  you'll  have  to  work. 
A  sailing  ship  needs  care,  it's  no  fishing  boat  for  food 
and  sleep." 

I  was  always  afraid  of  my  uncle.  He  was  as  rude  and 
mean  to  me  as  he  was  to  his  sailors.  Men  avoided  work- 
ing under  him. 

"Better  slaving  in  Algiers 
Than  with  Captain  Kalligeres." 

they  would  say  to  show  his  heartlessness.  He  would 
"bake  a  fish  on  their  lips"  not  only  in  the  work  he 
exacted  but  even  in  the  food  and  the  pay  he  gave  them. 
Whatever  there  was  of  old  salt  junk,  mouldy  dry  cod, 


28  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

bitter  flour,  weevilly  biscuit  and  chalky  cheese  could 
be  found  in  Kalligeres'  stores  to  be  used  for  his  sailors. 
He  would  never  speak,  except  to  command,  to  swear, 
or  to  abuse  somebody.  Only  men  who  despaired  of  any 
other  chance  would  offer  to  be  hired  by  him.  So  I  knew 
well  I  was  not  going  to  indiilge  in  caresses  and  good 
times.  But  the  lure  of  the  sea  made  me  disregard  every- 
thing. 

"Only  take  me  aboard,"  I  said,  "and  I'll  work  as 
much  as  you  want." 

To  make  my  word  good,  I  plunged  into  work.  I  made 
the  futtock-shrouds  my  play.  The  higher  I  had  to  go 
the  more  eager  I  was  to  climb  up  first.  Perhaps  my 
uncle  wished  to  make  it  especially  hard  for  me  from 
the  beginning  and  to  acquaint  me  with  the  endless  trials 
of  a  sailor's  life  in  order  to  make  me  change  my  mind. 
He  surely  kept  me  going,  from  deck-washing  to  deck- 
scrubbing,  from  sail-mending  to  rope-twisting,  from  let- 
ting go  and  clewing  up  the  sails  to  stowing  them ;  from 
the  quay  to  the  capstan,  from  loading  to  unloading,  from 
calking  to  painting.  I  had  to  be  first  in  everything. 
First  be  it !  "What  did  I  care  ?  I  was  satisfied  to  climb 
high  to  the  topyard  and  with  my  big  toes  grasping  the 
backstay  to  look  down  into  space  and  watch  the  sea  open 
a  way  and  retreat  before  me  as  my  humble  subject. 
Drunk  with  joy  I  compared  myself  to  a  proud  bird  wing- 
ing its  way  triumphantly  across  the  skies.  I  was  in  a 
magic  trance.     I  looked  with  pity  on  the  rest  of  the 


SEA  29 

world,  on  the  men  who  lived  on  dry  land.  They  seemed 
to  me  like  ants,  creeping  snakes,  or  slow-moving  tor- 
toises cursed  to  wear  their  shells  forever  as  a  useless 
burden. 

"Bah!"  I  would  say  with  contempt.  "They  think 
they  live ! '  *  On  such  a  surge  of  enthusiasm  I  heard  one 
day  the  Captain's  voice  roar  like  a  peal  of  thunder 
beside  me: 

"Let  go  the  sails!  Clew  up  and  let  go  all!" 
I  was  frightened  and  ran  to  follow  the  other  sailors 
without  understanding  exactly  what  the  trouble  was. 
Everyone  to  his  post,  and  I  to  mine.  They  flew  to  the 
jibs;  I  followed  them.  They  climbed  up  to  the  yards. 
I  was  among  them,  making  fast  and  stowing  every  sail. 
Within  five  minutes  the  bark  was  a  skeleton  of  spars. 
In  front  of  his  cabin  the  captain  stood  shouting  and 

abusing  and  cursing.     I  looked  at  him  but  d d  if 

I  knew  what  he  was  talking  about. 

"What  in  h 1  is  the  matter?"  I  asked  the  man 

next  to  me  as  we  were  making  the  sky-sail  fast. 
"The  squall — don't  you  see?  The  water-spout!" 
The  water-spout !  A  shiver  ran  down  my  back.  I 
had  often  heard  of  its  awful  wonders;  how  it  sweeps 
everything  away  on  its  path,  how  it  makes  tatters  of 
sails,  breaks  down  masts,  and  downs  all  sea-sailing 
things.  There  was  not  only  one  but  three  or  four.  Two 
of  them  rose  towards  Batum.  The  others  were  on  our 
port  bow  sweeping  over  the  waters  from  gray  distance 


30  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

where  sky  and  sea  met.  Ahead  Caucasus,  a  frowning 
monstrous  mass,  showing  his  darkened  coast  walled  with 
great  cliffs  like  bare  teeth  ready  to  tear  a  world.  Above 
us  the  sky  draped  with  thick  heavy  curtains  of  clouds; 
below,  the  sea,  blackish-gray,  trembling  from  end  to 
end  like  a  living  thing  shuddering  with  fear.  For  the 
first  time  I  saw  my  sweetheart  frightened. 

The  one  water-spout  was  high  and  arched  like  an  ele- 
phant's proboscis,  and  hung  over  the  waters,  a  black 
motionless  monster.  The  other,  at  first  like  an  immense 
thick  pillar  rising  straight  up,  was  suddenly  broken  in 
two  like  a  column  of  smoke ;  its  lower  half  was  shattered 
into  a  thousand  fragments  while  the  upper  half  hung 
from  the  clouds  like  a  many-forked  serpent's  tongue.  I 
saw  the  serpent  moving  on,  stretching  his  neck,  now  this 
way  and  now  that,  brandishing  his  tongues  as  if  seeking 
something  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  then  suddenly 
flinging  his  body  backward  and  gathering  it  in  coils  to 
nestle  among  the  clouds.  But  a  third  one,  black  and 
gray  and  as  thick  as  the  trunk  of  a  plane-tree  one  thou- 
sand years  old,  stood  motionless  for  some  time  sucking 
up  the  water  and  swelling  in  size;  and  then  tottering 
like  a  menacing  beast,  it  started  sweeping  against  us,  a 
monstrous  mass  of  terror. 

**Down  there!  Get  down!"  I  heard  a  voice  from  the 
deck  calling  me. 

Turning  around,  I  saw  that  all  the  others  had  climbed 
down  while  I  had  been  clinging  fast  to  the  topmast, 


SEA  31 

watching  the  strange  miracle.  I  glided  down  the 
shrouds  quickly  and  landed  beside  the  captain.  I  saw 
him  face  the  fearful  monster  with  a  savage  frown  and 
deep  watchful  eyes  as  if  he  were  to  bind  it  with  an  evil 
eye  spell.  In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  knife  with  a 
black  handle  and  stood  in  front  of  the  mizzen-mast  as 
if  he  had  chosen  it  for  a  target.  Near  him  the  mate  was 
filling  up  the  rusty  horn  by  throwing  into  its  empty 
belly  a  powder  of  all  kinds  of  old  nails  and  pieces  of 
lead.  Round  about,  the  rest  of  the  crew  stood  with 
arms  crossed,  speaking  no  word,  looking  now  at  the 
sky  and  now  at  the  sea  with  the  indifference  of  fatalists. 

Meanwhile  the  water  serpent  was  advancing  with 
winged  feet  and  with  swelled  breast,  sucking  up  the 
water  like  a  thirsty  Tantalus  and  casting  it  up  as  a 
smoky  cloud  of  storm  into  the  sky.  At  moments  you 
might  think  it  would  sweep  the  whole  deck  clean  of 
every  spar  or  snatch  up  the  whole  bark,  hull  and  all, 
and  hurl  it  skyward.  It  must  have  been  just  about  two 
yards  from  us.  Never  faltering,  it  rose  before  us  a 
shining  rounded  mass  of  gold  and  green  like  a  smoked 
ciystal,  and,  deep  in  its  trunk,  a  roughly  hammered 
piston  of  black  and  gi'ay,  the  water  hissed  upward  eager 
to  flood  whole  worlds  through  the  great  sky. 

"Strike!"  commanded  the  captain. 

The  mate,  with  a  quick  movement,  emptied  his  horn 
against  it.  Old  nails,  pieces  of  lead  and  hemp,  all  were 
lost  in  its  side.    It  seemed  to  tremble  from  top  to  toe. 


32  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Some  doubt  had  entered  its  heart,  or  some  cold  fear 
had  chilled  its  wind  and  it  stopped.  It  made  an  effort 
to  move  again  but  it  tottered,  whirled  about  twice  and 
stood  again  motionless,  a  tower  of  glass  uniting  sea  and 
sky. 

"Missed  it!"  said  the  captain  bitterly. 

"Missed  it! — I  see  that,"  said  the  mate;  "Just 
draw  the  pentalpha,  captain,  and  let  the  sin  be  on  my 
neck. ' ' 

"My  God,"  whispered  the  captain  with  resolution,  "I 
am  a  sinner."  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and, 
drawing  with  the  knife  a  pentalpha  on  the  mast, 
he  pronounced  the  spell  three  times  with  a  low 
voice : 

"In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  and  the  Word  was 
with  God  and  God  was  the  Word."  He  fixed  it  in  the 
midst  of  the  sacred  symbol  with  the  fury  of  a  man  who 
was  striking  at  the  heart  of  a  wild  beast. 

Something  like  thunder  was  heard,  as  if  a  gun  was 
discharged  on  our  broadside,  and  a  monstrous  wave 
rolled  down  our  deck.  At  the  same  time  light- 
ning flashed  from  the  Caucasus,  and  the  mountain 
roared  with  loud  rumbling.  The  squall  burst  now, 
and  the  sea,  stirred  with  fright,  foamed  and  raged 
over  the  whole  main  from  end  to  end.  A  wild  tempest, 
truly ! 

"Aloft  the  sails!"  commanded  the  captain  quickly. 
"Top-sails!     Jibs!     Top-gallants!     Royals!" 


SEA  33 

We  spread  our  sails  and  soon  the  bark  was  on  its 
course  again. 


n 


Three  weeks  later  we  anchored  at  Constantinople  with 
a  cargo  on  board.  There  I  received  the  first  letter  from 
my  mother,  a  first  letter  that  came  like  a  first  stab  at 
my  inexperienced  heart. 

"Yanne,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  woman,  "when  you 
come  back  to  the  island  with  St.  Nicholas'  help  and 
my  blessing,  you  will  not  be  any  longer  a  captain's  son 
as  you  were  on  the  day  you  sailed  away — your  father 
is  gone  with  his  schooner  and  all  our  fortune!  The 
Black  Sea  has  swallowed  them  all.  Now  you  have  noth- 
ing left  but  this  one-story  house,  me,  a  helpless  woman, 
and  God.  May  your  arms  be  strong.  "Work,  my  boy, 
and  respect  your  uncle.  If  you  have  anything  left  over 
from  your  earnings,  send  it  to  me  to  buy  oil  and  burn 
a  candle  before  the  Saint  for  your  father's  soul." 

I  crossed  my  hands  and  looked  with  tearful  eyes  at 
the  sea.  The  words  of  the  letter  seemed  to  me  like  an 
echo  of  my  father's  words.  He  was  a  captain,  owner  of 
his  own  vessel  for  many  years,  and  now  his  widow  had 
to  depend  on  my  savings  to  make  a  wheat  offering*  for 

*KiXvPa,  boiled  wheat  seasoned  with  sugar,  cinnamon,  burned 
flour,  nuts,  etc.,  and  placed  on  a  tray  before  the  altar.  The 
priest  prays  for  the  forgiveness  of  the  dead  person's  sins  and 
the  wheat  is  distributed  among  all  present,  who  take  it  saying, 
"God  forgive  him,"  and  eat  it. 


34  MODERN  GREEK   STORIES 

the  dead  man's  soul!  His  wheat  offering,  not  to  speak 
of  the  poor  widow's  own  needs !  Meanwhile,  who  knows 
against  what  reefs  his  iron  strong  arms  are  dashing, 
what  gulls  are  tearing  his  flesh,  or  what  waves  are 
bleaching  his  fleshless  bones! 

How  significant  were  his  last  words !  We  had  met  for 
the  last  time  just  as  we  were  sailing  into  the  port  of 
Theodosia  when  he  saw  me  high  on  the  top-yard 
stowing  the  skysail.  He  crossed  himself  and  stood 
dumb  with  emotion.  He  had  not  expected  such  a 
thing. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  him,  Captain  Angele?"  Kali- 
geres  shouted  to  him  as  we  sailed  by.  "I  won't  ex- 
change him  for  your  best  hand. ' ' 

At  the  same  moment  I  was  praying  earnestly  that 
the  sea  might  open  and  swallow  me.  I  could  not  rest 
as  long  as  I  felt  his  stem  eyes  fixed  on  me.  I  ran 
hurriedly  from  one  end  to  another,  as  if  I  was  too  busy 
to  stop.  So  down  into  the  forecastle  I  would  go,  and 
up  the  futtock-shrouds ;  or  I  would  pass  from  the  cap- 
stan to  the  pump  and  do  anything  to  avoid  him.  He 
understood  my  confusion  and  did  not  rise  from  his 
seat;  but  from  the  place  where  he  sat  he  followed 
me  with  a  sad,  complaining  eye  as  if  he  was  looking 
on  a  deathbed. 

Next  day  he  met  me  as  I  was  going  to  town  with  the 
other  men.  As  soon  as  I  caught  sight  of  him,  I  tried 
to  hide,  but  he  nodded  and  even  from  the  distance  his 


SEA  35 

nod  was  so  commanding  that  my  legs  refused  to  obey 
my  will. 

"My  boy,  whatever  was  the  matter  with  you?  Have 
you  thought  over  what  you  are  trying  to  do?" 

For  the  first  time  I  knew  there  was  gentleness  in  my 
father's  voice;  but  I  did  not  hesitate. 

"Father,"  I  said  with  courage,  "I  did  think  it  over. 
Maybe  my  act  is  foolish  and  bad;  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  can't  live  otherwise.  The  sea  calls  me;  don't  try  to 
cross  me.  Else  I  might  go  where  you  will  never  see 
me  again." 

He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  puzzled  by  my  deter- 
mination. He  looked  straight  into  my  eyes  for  some 
time,  then  he  shook  his  head  and  said: 

"Very  well,  my  boy;  do  whatever  God  prompts  you 
to.  I  have  done  my  part.  Remember,  I  have  spared 
neither  words  nor  money.  You  will  have  no  reason  to 
curse  me  in  the  future.    Go  with  my  blessing. '  * 

His  last  blessing  was  my  first  regret.  The  sea  did 
reward  my  love  on  my  first  trip. 

I  was  now  truly  a  hired  man  for  Captain  Kaligeres, 
to  earn  my  bread  and  my  mother's,  who  had  been  a 
captain's  wife.  Yet  in  spite  of  her  advice,  I  could 
neither  respect  him  nor  work  for  my  uncle  any  longer. 
If  I  must  be  a  hired  sailor,  I  thought,  thank  God  there 
are  other  vessels.  I  would  much  rather  get  a  hail 
of  abuse  from  a  stranger  than  from  my  own  kin.  A 
stranger  would  be  more  likely  to  respect  my  name.    And 


36  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

so  I  made  up  my  mind,  if  all  was  well,  to  disembark 
at  the  first  port. 

"Out  for  a  better  job?  You  will  see!"  said  Kila- 
geres,  who  guessed  my  thoughts. 

One  day  I  went  to  ask  a  little  olive  oil  for  the  meal. 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  for  the  man  who  stands  by 
the  wheel." 

I  went  a  second  time  and  a  third.  The  same  answer. 
It  wasn't  enough  for  him  to  feed  us  with  every  decay- 
ing thing ;  he  had  to  strike  even  olive  oil  off  our  rations. 
His  avarice  and  his  heartlessness  were  his  most  detest- 
able traits.  I  decided  to  get  back  at  him  once,  and  one 
day  when  I  was  at  the  wheel  and  he  was  out  of  sight, 
I  took  the  picture  of  St.  Nicholas  from  the  chart-house, 
where  a  candle  filled  with  olive  oil  burned  before  it, 
tied  it  on  the  wheel  and  left  the  deck.  The  bark,  like  a 
crazy  person,  wandered  all  over  the  sea. 

"Yanne!"  shouted  the  captain,  "who  ia  at  the 
wheel?" 

* '  He  who  eats  the  oil ! "  I  answered. 

All  the  crew  split  themselves  laughing  and  that  an- 
gered him. 

"Get  out!"  he  said.    "Pack  your  things  and  go!" 

"All  right.     Give  me  my  pay." 

He  took  me  into  the  chart-house  and  opened  his 
account  book.  He  reckoned  up  my'  dues  in  his  usual 
manner. 

"I  hired  you  on  such  a  day.    The  next  day  you  came 


SEA  37 

aboard;  the  day  after  you  brought  in  your  clothes  and 
one  day  later  you  started  work.    Not  so?" 

He  cheated  me  altogether  out  of  five  days'  pay.  Still 
it  might  have  been  worse. 

"Just  as  you  say,"  I  said. 

And  so,  with  two  pounds  in  my  pocket,  I  landed  in 
Messena 


III 


From  now  on  I  lived  like  a  real  sailor.  A  life  of  toil 
and  turmoil.  Ant-like  as  far  as  being  always  busy,  but 
never  ant-like  in  saving.  How  could  you  ever  save 
with  such  work  from  hand  to  mouth?  One  pair  of 
shoes  took  one  month's  wages.  A  waterproof,  another 
month's  pay.  One  good  time  on  shore,  a  third  month. 
One  month  out  of  a  job,  six  months  in  debt.  How  could 
you  save  and  support  a  home?  My  home  did  not  last 
long.  Merciful  death  sealed  its  door.  "Within  a  year 
my  mother  died  and  her  care  was  taken  off  my  shoulders. 

Wandering  from  ship  to  ship,  from  captain  to  cap- 
tain, and  from  trip  to  trip,  I  wasted  ten  years  on  the 
sea.  It  was  a  troubled  life;  one  pleasure,  three  misad- 
ventures. Before  you  could  say  * '  praise  God, ' '  you  had 
to  yell  "God  help  us!"  Day  and  night  my  father's 
words  resounded  in  my  ears.  What  was  the  use?  Yon 
might  knock  your  fist  against  a  knife  or  your  head 
against  a  mast;  the  mast  can't  break.    If  I  had  a  root 


44t>o^ 


38  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

of  grapevine  on  land  I  might  throw  a  black  stone  be- 
hind me  and  leave  the  sea  forever.  But  where  was  the 
vine?  I  had  one  of  two  fortunes  coming  to  me;  either 
some  wave  would  bury  me  or  I  might  turn  into  the 
world  a  beggar.  Very  well,  then.  A  blessed  life  had 
to  be  mine.  I  might  stick  to  the  Job  and  have  a  good 
time.  I  wasn't  alone — ^was  I  ?  Eveiy  sailor  in  the  world 
has  the  same  bad  luck.  I  was  a  hired  hand  on  many 
vessels  and  worked  with  many  foreigners,  too,  but  never 
did  I  envy  anyone.  A  sailor's  life  is  the  same  every- 
where; abuse  from  the  captain,  contempt  from  the 
charterer,  threats  from  the  sea,  kicks  from  the  land. 
Wherever  he  turns,  he  faces  an  enemy. 

Once,  when  I  had  come  to  Piraeus  on  an  English  brig 
I  thought  of  going  to  my  island  which  I  had  never 
seen  since  the  day  I  had  sailed  away  with  Captain  Kalli- 
geres.  Fate  had  taken  me  on  her  wings  and  made  me 
spin  about  the  earth  like  a  top.  On  my  return  I  found 
my  home  a  ruin,  my  mother's  grave  overgrown  with 
weeds  and  my  young  sweetheart  a  grown-up  girl.  I 
had  the  priest  read  prayers  for  my  mother,  I  burned  a 
taper  for  my  father's  soul,  and  cast  two  glances  on  my 
sweetheart.    I  shivered  all  over. 

"Who  knows?"  I  thought  bitterly.  *'If  I  had  list- 
ened  to  my  father's  words  might  I  not  now  be  Mary's 
husband?'* 

Her  father,  Captain  Parares,  was  an  ancient  ship- 
owner, of  the  same  age  as  my  father.    He  was  lucky 


SEA  39 

with  the  sea.  He  struck  it  at  the  proper  time  and  so 
he  reaped  a  rich  han^est  from  it.  Then  he  sold  hia 
bark,  St.  Stephanos,  bought  some  dry  fields,  turned 
them  into  a  garden,  and  dropped  his  travels  forever. 

I  did  not  leave  on  the  next  day  as  my  plan  was.  Nor 
the  day  after.  A  week  went  by  and  I  was  still  there. 
Something  held  me  back,  though  I  had  nothing  more 
to  do.  Only  the  same  thought  came  again  and  again 
to  my  mind,  putting  out,  like  a  light  extinguisher,  all 
other  thoughts. 

"If  I  had  listened  to  my  father's  words,  might  I  not 
now  be  Mary's  husband?" 

At  the  same  time  I  kept  passing  and  repassing  her 
home,  and  towards  evening  I  would  take  the  road  to  the 
village — ^well.  Just  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her.  In  other 
words,  I  was  in  love  with  Mary.  Whenever  she  passed 
with  lowered  eyes  and  light  step  before  me  and  I  saw 
her  full  breast  and  her  hair  hanging  in  black  waves  down 
her  back,  I  felt  a  desire  to  run  to  her  and  lock  her  in 
my  arms  with  unfailing  passion.  Her  black,  almond- 
shaped  eyes  seemed  to  promise  to  me  a  calm,  happy  and 
restful  nest,  and  her  bosom  looked  like  a  harbor  of  tran- 
quil waters  and  smooth  sands  where  a  mariner  might, 
without  any  fear,  moor  his  boat. 

It  was  like  the  vision  that  always  haunts  me.  Waves, 
sky,  earth  and  its  crops,  men,  life  itself  always  transi- 
tory and  changing,  tire  our  souls.  As  a  balance  of 
necessity,   nature  must   seek   stability;   and   our  mind 


40  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

looks  for  a  place  where  it  can  rest  by  day  and  by  night 
while  the  body  goes  on  with  its  endless  trials  and  strug- 
gles. So  a  woman  is  found  and  a  marriage  is  sought. 
Do  you  think  it  of  small  importance  while  you  wander 
over  the  world  to  know  that  there  is  a  little  corner  for 
you  somewhere,  where  love  burns  for  you  expecting  your 
return  anxiously  ?  The  same  magnet  that  once  had  lured 
me,  inexperienced  lad,  to  the  sea,  was  now  drawing  me, 
a  full-grown  man,  towards  the  woman — only  with  much 
greater  force.  With  the  same  blind  passion,  I  followed 
the  footprints  of  my  fair  one.  I  first  sent  Captain 
Kalligeres  as  messenger  of  my  love.  Then  Kalomoira, 
"the  Good  Fortune,"  an  old  woman  famous  through- 
out the  island  as  a  matchmaker. 

**I  will  not  go,"  I  thought,  "until  I  have  an  answer." 

But  my  messenger  brought  everything  to  a  happy  end. 
There  was  honey  in  her  words  and  she  won  both  the 
girl  and  her  father. 

"I  want  to  speak  lo  you,"  said  Captain  Parares  to 
me  one  evening,  after  taking  me  apart.  "Your  purpose 
is  good  and  your  way  is  honest.  There  is  nobody  I 
would  like  to  have  in  my  house  better  than  the  son  of 
a  friend  who  was  like  a  brother  to  me.  Mary  will  be 
yours.  But  on  one  condition:  You  will  have  to  give 
up  the  sea.  I  stand  by  your  father's  words.  The  sea 
has  no  faith  nor  mercy.    You  must  give  it  up." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  I  asked.  "How  can  I  live? 
You  know  I  have  learned  no  other  trade." 


SEA  41 

"I  know  it.    But  Mary  has  a  fortune  of  her  own." 
It  came  like  a  slap  to  me  and  I  turned  all  red. 
"Then  am  I  to  take  a  wife  to  support  me?" 
"No,  she  will  not  support  you.     Don't  be  angry.     I 
did  not  mean  to  offend  you.     You  will  work  together. 
There  is  the  orchard,  the  vineyard,  the  field.    They  need 
workers. ' ' 

The  truth  was,  I  needed  nothing  better.  I  was  ready 
to  give  up  the  sea  forever.  I  felt  like  St.  Elias,  who 
shouldered  his  oar  and  took  to  the  mountains,  looking 
for  a  place  to  live  where  men  had  never  heard  of  his 
name.  He  didn't  care  either  to  look  on  the  sea  or  to 
hear  of  it  any  longer.  I  felt  exactly  the  same.  Her 
name,  her  color,  her  charms  had  no  more  secrets  for 
me.    The  spell  had  been  broken. 

"Agreed!"  I  said,  "you  have  my  word  for  it." 


IV 


Three  years  went  by,  spent  with  Mary  up  in  Trapi, 
my  father-in-law's  village.  Three  years  of  real  life.  I 
learned  how  to  handle  a  pick  and  worked  with  my  wife 
in  the  orchard,  the  vineyard  and  the  field.  "With  work 
and  love,  I  never  felt  the  passing  of  time.  When  we 
did  not  dig  together  we  chased  each  other  under  the 
citron  trees  like  birds  just  learning  how  to  fly.  Her 
word  followed  on  my. word;  her  kiss  on  mine.  I  learned 
how  to  dig  around  the  citron  trees,  how  to  prune  the 


42  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

vines,  and  how  to  plough  the  field.  Then  I  knew  hoTT 
to  pick  the  citrons  in  the  fall,  how  to  gather  the  grapes 
when  vintage  time  came  in  August,  and  how  to  reap  the 
wheat-field  in  the  month  of  harvest.  I  earned  fifty 
dollars  from  my  citrons  yearly,  twenty  from  my  vine, 
and  forty  from  my  wheat,  besides  the  seed  I  kept  for 
next  year's  crop  and  the  provisions  for  my  own  home 
use.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  really  knew  what  earn- 
ing was,  and  realized  that  my  labor  was  received  grate- 
fully and  rewarded  wath  plenty.  The  speechless  earth 
tried  in  a  thousand  manners,  colors,  shapes,  fragrances, 
fruits  and  flowers  to  speak  and  thank  me  for  my  taking 
care  of  it. 

If  I  ploughed,  the  furrow  remained  faithfully  where 
I  opened  it.  It  would  receive  the  seed  and  hide  it  dili- 
gently from  the  flying  things;  then  it  would  keep  it 
warm  and  damp  until  the  day  when  it  would  show  it 
before  my  eyes  fresh  with  dew,  green  with  living  sap, 
and  finally  mature  with  gold.  The  earth  seemed  to 
say :  * '  See  how  I  have  brought  it  up ! "  If  I  lightened 
the  burden  of  a  vine  by  pruning  it,  the  vine  would  seem 
to  burst  into  tears  with  emotion,  and  shaking  with  de- 
light would  open  its  eyes  like  bright  butterflies  and  sud- 
denly bring  forth  its  hea%^  burden  of  new  clusters.  If 
I  trimmed  the  citron  tree,  it  would  rise  lithe  with  grace 
and  dazzling  with  beauty,  and  with  its  tufted  branches 
would  build  wonderful  shady  arches  to  cool  our  bodies 
from  the  noon-day  heat  and  to  shower  fragrances  on  our 


SEA  43 

sleep  at  night,  while  its  light  golden  fruit  would  refresh 
our  very  being. 

Yes,  it  is  the  earth  God  has  blessed  with  feeling  and 
not  that  senseless  monster  that  wipes  off  your  track 
as  soon  as  your  keel  has  opened  it,  jealous  of  any  sign 
that  anyone  might  try  to  leave  on  eternity.  Praise 
the  sea  all  you  may ;  flatter  it,  sing  of  it ;  its  answer  is 
a  thrust  for  you  to  get  away,  a  murmur  of  discontent 
at  your  presence,  or  an  untamed  tiger's  roar  with  which 
it  tries  to  open  a  grave  for  you.  Cain,  after  his  crime, 
should  have  been  condemned  to  a  seaman's  life. 

At  sunset  we  would  walk  back  to  the  village.  Mary 
would  go  ahead  in  the  midst  of  her  playful  goats  shak- 
ing their  bells  as  they  frisked  about  merrily.  I  would 
follow  with  the  pick  on  my  shoulder  leading  behind 
me  the  mule  loaded  with  logs  for  fuel.  Then,  at  home, 
while  Mary  lighted  the  fire  to  make  supper,  I  would  light 
my  pipe  and  sit  down  comfortably  at  the  threshold  in 
the  midst  of  a  blond  honeysuckle  that  spread  lustily 
over  the  walls  in  the  midst  of  scented  royal  mints  and 
spearmints  and  sweet  marjorams,  generous  little  plants 
that  asked  for  nothing  but  a  handful  of  proper  earth 
and  a  drop  of  water  to  bathe  us  with  fragrance  and 
grace. 

From  this  place  I  would  exchange  greetings  with 
passing  neighbors,  greetings  that  trickled  from  the  very 
heart. 

"Good  evening!" 


44  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

' '  Good  evening  to  you ! '  * 

''Goodnight!" 

''Good  luck  to  you!" 

I  did  not  have  to  look  anxiously  at  the  sky  any  longer. 
I  did  not  have  to  consider  the  position  of  the  moon,  the 
trembling  light  of  the  stars,  the  course  of  the  wind,  the 
rise  of  the  Pleiades.  And  late  at  night,  when  I  east 
anchor  in  my  love's  arms,  what  bay  or  what  luring  port 
could  ever  give  me  such  happiness! 

So  two  years  passed  and  now  we  M'ere  in  the  third. 
One  Sunday  in  February  I  went  with  my  wife  to  my 
old  town  of  St.  Nicholas  bj^  the  Sea.  Her  cousin.  Cap- 
tain Malamos  was  christening  his  brig  and  had  invited 
us  to  the  joyful  occasion.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  which 
was  the  first  awakening  of  my  old  longing.  The  dock 
was  covered  with  timber,  masts,  beams,  splinters,  and 
woodshavings.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  smell  of  the 
sea  brine,  the  scent  of  freshly  cut  timber,  the  heavy  odor 
of  tar,  pitch  and  ropes.  There  were  hills  of  hemp  and 
piles  of  steel  pieces.  From  one  end  of  the  beach  to  the 
other  there  was  an  array  of  little  row-boats  beautifully 
painted,  brigs  careened,  luggers  stripped  of  all  rigging 
and  old  hulls  covered  with  barnacles  and  seaweeds. 
There  were  skeletons  of  cutters,  schooners,  and  brigan- 
tines,  some  with  just  the  keel  and  the  sea-steps,  others 
ribbed  and  planked  up  to  the  gunwale,  others  only  half- 
way up.  Any  tool  a  seaman  might  wish  for  was  there ; 
ftnd  any  seaman's  dreams,  ambitions,  simple  longings, 


SEA  45 

and  great  hopes  could  be  found  on  that  gold-sanded 
beach,  expressed  vividly  in  some  wooden  structure  by 
some  shipbuilder's  hands.  The  guests — the  whole  island, 
it  seemed — old  men  and  young  boys,  old  women  and 
young  girls,  moved  in  their  Sunday  clothes  from  one 
ship's  frame  to  another.  The  boys  hopped  from  place 
to  place.  The  men  handled  their  parts  with  knowing 
pride  and  often  they  spoke  to  them  as  if  they  were  living 
things.  The  veterans  of  the  sea  sized  up  each  ship's 
worth,  estimated  its  speed,  measured  its  tonnage,  re- 
counted the  profits  it  might  bring,  and  gave  their  advice 
to  the  master  builder  on  everything.  At  last,  they  con- 
cluded by  wishing  the  owner  of  each  ship  that  its  nails 
might  turn  to  gold  for  him. 

Captain  Malamos'  brig  was  standing  in  its  dock  with 
its  fine  and  lovely  hull,  with  its  many  props  on  both 
sides  like  a  huge  centipede  sleeping  on  the  sandy  beach. 
Its  prow  curved  like  a  delicately  wrought  saber ;  its 
stern  was  girded  with  garlands  of  flowers.  A  glistening 
meadow  of  pure  azure,  the  sea,  spread  before  it,  shim- 
mering playfully  and  reaching  for  the  ship's  feet  with 
little  tongues  of  rippling  water.  She  sprinkled  it  with 
her  lukewarm  spray,  made  it  fragrant  with  her  salt 
breath  and  sang  to  it  a  secret  confiding  song:  "Come," 
she  sang,  "come  to  lie  on  my  bosom.  I  will  give  you 
life  with  my  kiss;  I  will  breathe  a  soul  into  you  and 
will  make  you  fly  on  strong  wings.  Why  do  you  lie 
there,  a  mass  of  soulless  timber,  like  something  heavy 


46  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

with  sleep?  Are  you  not  weary  of  the  torpor  of  the 
forest  and  its  life  of  no  will?  Shame  to  you!  Come 
out  into  the  sun,  and  the  air,  and  the  light!  Come  to 
wrestle  with  the  wave  and  ride  victor  over  it!  With 
raised  breast  meet  the  strong  wind  and  tear  him  into 
tatters.  You  will  be  the  whale's  envy,  the  dolphin's 
mate,  the  sea-gull's  comfort,  the  sailor's  song;  your  cap- 
tain's pride.  Come,  my  bride,  come!"  and  the  ship 
seemed  to  feel  the  spell  of  the  sea  and  began  to  creak, 
eager  to  leave  its  bed  where  it  lay  in  idleness. 

All  about,  the  guests  were  crowding.  Captain  Mala- 
mos  stood  by  with  a  smooth-shaved,  smiling  face, 
dressed  in  his  best,  with  a  broad  scarf  about  his  waist. 
Near  him,  his  wife,  in  a  dress  of  silk,  looked  like  a  bride. 
They  seemed  to  live  their  wedding  day  once  more,  while 
a  violin,  a  mandolin,  and  a  drum  played  their  gay 
melodies  with  a  spirit  that  seemed  determined  to  carry 
the  glad  tidings  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

"Would  you  believe  it?  I  was  not  happy  in  the  least. 
As  I  was  sitting  towards  the  end  nearest  the  sea,  I 
would  see  her  little  ripples  reaching  at  my  feet,  and  a 
certain  sadness  wrung  my  heart.  My  first  sweetheart, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  years,  was  now  facing  me  again, 
young  and  beautiful,  clothed  in  her  raiment  of  sapphire 
blue.  Her  face  smiled  with  perfect  gladness;  and  I 
thought  that  she  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  me  and  that  she 
spoke  words  of  regretful  complaint: 

"Faithless  one!    Deceiver!    Coward!" 


SEA  47 

"Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan!"  I  said  to  myself,  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

I  wanted  to  get  away  but  my  feet  refused.  My  body 
seemed  like  a  mass  of  lead  that  was  stuck  to  the  rock; 
and  my  eyes,  my  ears,  my  soul  were  a  helpless 
prey  to  the  wave  which  continued  to  sing  its  sad  com- 
plaint : 

"Faithless  one!    Deceiver!    Coward!'* 

Tears  almost  came  to  my  eyes.  My  hatred  for  the 
sea,  her  tyranny,  her  crimes,  the  sleepless  nights  and 
my  fruitless  labor,  all,  vanished  from  my  mind  like  bad 
dreams.  I  only  remembered  my  first  joys,  the  glad 
drunkenness  of  the  sea,  the  charm  of  wandering  over 
her,  the  magic  shiver  of  her  dangers,  the  sheer  enjoy- 
ment of  escaping  them,  the  recklessness  of  a  sailor's 
life.  All  these  joys  I  had  abandoned  for  the  sake  of  a 
woman. 

"Well,  what  makes  you  so  thoughtful,  life  of  mine?" 
I  heard  a  voice  beside  me.  I  turned  and  saw  Mary, 
beautiful  and  smiling,  with  her  lithe  body,  her  fresh 
lips,  her  full  breast,  her  shining  eyes,  and  her  coal- 
black  hair.  I  felt  confused  and  guilty  as  if  I  had  been 
caught  in  the  act  of  deceiving  her. 

*  *  Nothing, ' '  I  murmured ;  *  *  nothing !  Lend  me  a  hand 
to  get  up.    I  feel  dizzy," 

I  took  her  hand  and  grasped  her  with  intense  eager- 
ness as  if  I  were  in  danger  of  falling  into  the  cold  dark- 
ness of  an  abyss.    The  priest,  in  his  vestments,  was  read- 


48  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

ing  Ms  prayers  over  the  new  ship.  The  shipbuilder 
began  giving  his  commands: 

"Let  go  the  stern  prop!  Let  go  the  prow!  Loosen 
the  sides  now!" 

One  after  another  the  props  fell  from  the  hull  and 
the  brig  began  to  shake  as  if  still  stiff  from  sleep  and 
hesitating  to  plunge  forward  into  its  new  life.  The  boys 
that  had  climbed  on  deck  were  running  from  stern  to 
prow  and  from  starboard  to  port,  making  a  noise  like  a 
flock  of  sheep. 

The  hands  had  taken  their  places  beside  the  hull  in 
order  to  push  it  into  the  sea.  The  master-builder  com- 
manded again: 

"Let  go!" 

At  the  united  effort  of  so  many  breasts,  the  ship 
groaned,  shook  once  more,  and  finally  glided,  like  a  duck, 
into  the  water  with  its  youthful  crew  on  deck. 

* '  Good  luck  to  it.  Captain  Malamos !  Good  luck  to  it. 
May  her  nails  turn  to  gold  for  you ! ' '  the  crowd  of  sea- 
men shouted,  and  sprinkled  the  captain  and  his  wife  with 
spray. 

But  at  that  moment  one  of  the  boys  on  deck  stumbled 
as  he  ran  and  fell  senseless  overboard.  On  the  same 
instant,  I  plunged  into  the  sea  with  my  clothes  on.  With 
the  second  dive  I  pulled  the  boy  to  the  surface.  I  saved 
the  boy  but  the  meshes  of  the  sea  were  tight  about  me 
and  none  could  save  me.  From  that  time  on  I  could 
neither  sleep  nor  rest.    Joy  had  left  me  forever.     That 


SEA  49 

plunge  into  the  sea,  her  warm  water  that  had  embraced 
me,  was  now  dragging  my  soul  a  slave  behind  it.  I 
remembered  its  touch  was  like  warm  kisses  that  sent  an 
electric  current  down  my  back.  With  my  open  eyes  I 
saw  before  me  a  bride  clothed  jn  blue ;  young,  glad,  and 
tender,  nodding  to  me  from  the  distance  to  follow  her. 
I  could  hear  her  call:    "Come!    Come!" 

I  could  not  work  any  longer.  I  tried  to  go  back  to 
my  orchard,  field  and  vineyard,  but  all  seemed  to  me 
walled  in  and  narrow.  The  shade  of  the  citron  tree  was 
heavy  and  cold.  The  vine-twigs  with  their  knots  seemed 
disgustingly  ugly,  like  a  lobster's  legs.  The  furrows 
of  the  field,  cheap.  So  I  spent  day  after  day  on  the 
beach  plunging  in  the  water.  I  felt  its  touch  with 
shivers  of  delight.  I  caught  hungrily  its  salt  breath 
and  I  wallowed  in  bliss  among  the  seaweeds  as  on  a  bed 
of  soft  feathers  and  silk.  I  would  spend  hours  picking 
sea  urchins  and  crabs.  Often  I  would  go  down  to 
the  harbor  and  with  some  hesitation  draw  near  the 
groups  of  sailors  to  hear  them  talk  about  their  rigs,  and 
travels,  and  storms,  and  shipwrecks.  They  would  hardly 
look  at  me.  You  see,  I  was  only  a  peasant,  an  old 
farmer,  while  they  were  sailors,  dolphins  of  the  sea. 
What  could  a  poplar  have  to  do  with  rhubarb?  How 
could  it  stoop  trom.  its  height  to  see  the  little  weed  at 
its  feet?  They  could  not  even  count  me  as  present  in 
their  company.  The  younger  sailors  would  look  at  me 
with  wonder  as  if  they  said:    ** Where  does  this  ghost 


50  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

come  from?"  The  older  men  who  once  had  been  my 
friends  and  my  mates  would  occasionally  deign  to  ad- 
dress me  with  a  jest: 

"Now,  Yanne,  you  have  your  hawsers  pretty  tight. 
You  don't  have  to  worry  about  wind  or  sea.  You've 
cast  anchor  for  good!" 

Their  eyes  had  such  an  expression  of  pity  that  I  could 
read  in  them  what  they  did  not  speak  in  words:  **You 
are  a  dead  man!  You  don't  belong  to  the  living  world 
any  longer!"  So  I  turned  to  the  beach  to  tell  my 
troubles  to  the  waves.  At  the  end,  I  turned  back  to 
my  early  years  and  consoled  myself  with  little  ships 
which  I  built  with  my  hands.  My  skill  was  mature  now 
and  I  could  make  them  with  oak  masts  and  actual  stays 
and  sails,  while  my  imagination  was  again  aflame 
and  made  triple-decked  barks  out  of  them.  I  was  a 
child  again. 

Mary  watched  me  and  wondered  about  my  change. 
Often  she  thought  I  was  turning  insane  and  prayed  to 
Virgin  Mary  to  help  me.  She  made  more  than  one  vow 
to  the  Holy  Virgin  of  Tenos,  and  went  on  many  pil- 
grimages to  the  neighboring  country  shrines  with  bare 
feet.  She  had  prayers  read  over  my  clothes,  and  often 
beating  her  breast  with  anxiety,  she  called  on  the  saints 
and  tried  to  secure  their  help  in  bringing  me  back  to 
my  senses  again. 

"Mary,"  I  said  to  her  once,  "there's  nothing  that  will 
help.    Neither  saints  nor  vows  can  cure  my  trouble.    I 


SEA  51 

am  a  child  of  the  sea.  It  calls  and  I  must  go.  Sooner 
or  later  I  must  return  to  my  old  trade.  Else  I  could 
not  live." 

As  soon  as  she  heard  it  she  put  on  mourning.  At  last 
she  knew  the  serpent  that  had  been  biting  her  so  long 
in  secret. 

**Your  trade!"  she  cried;  **to  be  a  sailor — and  poor 
again!" 

"Yes,  a  sailor!  I  can't  help  it.  The  sea  is  calling 
me!" 

But  she  could  not  understand.  She  would  not  hear 
of  it.  She  cried  and  prayed.  She  threw  her  arms  about 
me,  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  and  covered  me  with 
kisses,  clinging  to  me  with  despair,  anxious  in  her 
jealousy  to  make  me  see  the  toil  of  the  sea,  its  dangers, 
and  shipwrecks.  She  would  abuse  the  sea,  find  a  thou- 
sand faults  with  it,  and  curse  it  as  if  it  was  her  rival. 
But  all  was  in  vain.  Neither  her  arms  nor  her  kisses 
could  bind  me  any  longer.  Everything  seemed  cold  and 
wearisome,  even  my  bed. 

One  evening,  about  sunset,  as  I  was  sitting  on  the 
rocks  by  the  sea,  plunged  in  my  usual  thought,  I  saw 
before  me  a  brig  sailing  by,  with  all  her  sails  bulging 
with  the  wind.  It  looked  like  a  cliff  of  light  rising  sud- 
denly from  the  midst  of  the  sea.  All  her  spars  and 
stays  were  painted  with  wonderful  distinctness  against 
the  blue  sky.  I  saw  the  jibs,  the  courses,  the  top-sails, 
the  top-gallants,  the  trucks.    I  believe  I  could  even  see 


52  MODEEN   GREEK   STORIES 

the  billet-head.  My  eyes  seemed  to  get  a  supernatural 
power  so  that  they  could  turn  timber  to  crystal  and  reach 
the  very  depths  of  the  ship.  I  could  see  the  captain's 
cabin  adorned  with  the  picture  of  St.  Nicholas  and  his 
never-failing  candle.  I  could  see  the  sailors'  bunks,  hear 
their  simple  talk,  and  feel  their  sour  smell.  I  could  see 
the  kitchen,  the  water-barrels,  the  pump,  the  capstan. 
My  soul,  like  a  homesick  bird,  had  perched  on  the  full- 
rigged  ship.  I  heard  the  wind  whistling  past  the  stays 
and  shrouds,  singing  with  a  harmony  more  than  divine 
of  a  seaman 's  life ;  and  before  my  eyes  passed  on  winged 
feet  virgins  with  fair  hair  and  black  hair,  virgins  with 
blue  eyes  and  dark  eyes,  and  virgins  with  flowers,  show- 
ing their  bare  breasts  and  sending  me  distant  kisses. 
Then  I  saw  noisy  ports,  taverns  filled  with  smoke  and 
wine-cups  and  resounding  with  sweet  voiced  guitars  and 
tambourines.  Suddenly  I  saw  a  sailor  pointing  at  me 
and  heard  him  say  to  his  companion : 

"There  goes  one  who  renounced  the  sea  for  fear  of 
it!'» 

I  sprang  up  like  a  madman.  Never  for  fear !  Never, 
I  thought,  and  ran  back  to  the  house.  Mary  had  gone 
out  to  the  brook.  So  much  the  better.  I  took  a  purse 
from  under  my  pillow,  cast  a  last  glance  on  the  bed, 
and  with  a  pack  of  clothes  on  my  shoulder,  I  disappeared 
like  a  thief.  It  was  dark  when  I  reached  St.  Nicholas, 
but  without  losing  any  time  I  jumped  into  a  boat  and 
rowed  to  the  brig. 


SEA  /  53 

Life  has  been  a  phantom  for  me  ever  since.  If  you 
ask  me  if  I  regret  it,  I  would  not  know  what  to  answer. 
But  even  should  I  go  back  to  my  island  now,  I  could 
never  rest. 

The  sea  claims  me. 


THE  SIN  OF  MY  MOTHER 
By  George  T.  Bizyenos 


THE  SIN  OF  MY  MOTHER 

We  had  only  one  sister,  little  Annio,  the  pet  of  our 
small  family,  and  beloved  by  all.  Mother  cared  more 
for  her  than  for  any  others,  and  at  table  she  placed 
Annio  by  her  side,  and  gave  her  the  best  of  whatever 
there  was  to  eat.  And  she  always  bought  new  materials 
for  little  Annio 's  dresses,  although  the  rest  of  us  had 
our  clothes  made  out  of  the  old  garments  of  our  late 
father.  Annio  was  not  even  urged  in  her  studies.  She 
went  to  school  only  when  she  wanted  to,  and  remained 
at  home  when  she  wished.  To  us  boys  such  indulgence 
was  never  permitted 

Such  partiality  might  easily  have  led  to  destructive 
jealousies,  especially  among  such  small  children  as  my 
two  brothers  and  mj^self.  We  felt,  however,  that  our 
mother's  inner  affection  was  equally  divided  among  us, 
and  that  this  preference  she  showed  was  merely  because 
Annio  was  the  only  girl  of  the  family.  Besides  Annio 
was  very  delicate.  Even  our  youngest  brother,  bom 
after  Father's  death,  who  had  a  right  to  expect  his 
mother's  caresses  more  than  anyone  else,  willingly  con- 
ceded to  his  sister  all  his  privileges. 

With  all  this  spoiling  at  the  hands  of  the  whole  fam- 

57 


58  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

ily,  Annio  was  neither  spoiled,  nor  conceited.  On  the 
contrary,  she  was  always  docile  and  affectionate,  and 
her  tenderness  to  ns  increased  as  the  disease  which  was 
consuming  her  developed.  How  vividly  I  remember  her 
large  black  eyes,  and  her  beautifully  curved  eyebrows, 
which  became  blacker  as  her  face  grew  ever  paler.  Her 
expression,  usually  sad  and  dreamy,  assumed  a  sweet 
serenity  when  Ave  were  with  her.  She  kept  under  her 
pillow  the  fruit  which  the  neighbors  brought  her,  and 
divided  it  among  us  when  we  came  back  from  school. 
She  had  to  do  this  on  the  sly,  because  Mother  did  not 
like  to  see  us  devour  what  was  meant  for  her  sick 
daughter. 

As  Annio 's  health  became  worse,  Mother's  attentions 
were  more  and  more  concentrated  on  her.  Up  to  this 
time  Mother  had  never  gone  out  of  the  house,  because 
she  had  been  left  a  widow  too  young,  and  was  ashamed 
to  use  the  freedom  which,  even  in  Turkey,  was  granted 
to  the  mother  of  manj^  children ;  but  from  the  day  that 
Annio  took  seriously  to  her  bed.  Mother  cast  all  restraint 
aside.  Did  she  hear  that  some  one  had  an  illness  like 
Annio 's,  she  would  rush  to  inquire  how  it  was  being 
cured ;  did  she  learn  of  some  old  woman  who  had  herbs 
of  wonderful  curative  powers,  she  would  hasten  to  buy 
them;  or  if  she  heard  that  a  stranger  famed  for  his 
knowledge  had  come  to  town,  she  would  not  hesitate  to 
call  for  his  help.  According  to  the  popular  belief  among 
us,  any  learned  person  knew  everything ;  and  often  mys- 


THE    SIN   OF   MY   MOTHER  59 

terious  beings  of  superhuman  powers  appeared  under 
the  guise  of  poor  travelers. 

The  fat  barber  of  our  neighborhood  used  to  call  upon 
us,  uninvited,  conscious  of  his  right  to  do  so  as  the  only 
accredited  doctor  of  our  district.  As  soon  as  we  espied 
him  it  was  my  duty  to  run  to  the  grocer,  because  the 
barber  never  approached  our  sick  one  without  gulping 
down  at  least  fifty  drams  of  raki. 

*'I  am  an  old  man,  my  good  woman,"  he  would  say 
to  my  impatient  mother,  "I  am  an  old  man,  and  unless 
I  warm  up  a  bit,  my  eyes  cannot  see  very  well. ' ' 

Indeed,  he  was  not  lying  about  this,  since  the  more 
he  drank  the  easier  it  was  for  him  to  find  out  which 
was  the  fattest  hen  in  our  yard,  to  take  with  him  when 
he  left  the  house. 

After  a  while  Mother  no  longer  made  use  of  his  medi- 
cines, although  she  paid  him  regularly  and  uncomplain- 
ingly, first  because  she  did  not  wish  to  displease  him, 
and  secondly  because  he  was  often  able  to  comfort  her 
with  the  assurance  that  the  disease  was  progressing 
according  to  science  and  to  his  prescriptions. 

Unfortunately  his  statements  were  only  too  well 
founded,  and  every  day  our  little  sister's  condition 
grew  worse.  The  persistence  of  the  unknown  malady 
worked  on  our  mother 's  mind,  since  any  sickness  foreign 
to  the  country,  in  order  to  be  thought  natural,  must 
either  soon  yield  to  the  simple  remedies  known  to  the 
district,  or  kill  the  patient.     If  it  persists,  it  is  con- 


60  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

sidered  supernatural,  and  is  attributed  to  the  devil. 
The  sufferer  must  have  sat  in  a  cursed  spot ;  must  have 
crossed  a  river  at  night,  when  invisible  fairies  were  per- 
forming their  rites;  or  must  have  ridden  a  black  cat, 
which  was  the  devil  in  disguise. 

Our  mother  was  more  religious  than  superstitious. 
She  gave  no  credence  to  these  causes  for  the  illness,  and 
absolutely  declined  to  use  the  prescribed  magics,  fear- 
ing to  sin  against  God;  yet  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  she 
summoned  the  priest  to  Annio's  bedside  to  exorcise  the 
evil  spirit.  Later,  however,  as  the  condition  of  our 
sister  grew  worse,  mother-love  triumphed  over  the  fear 
of  sin,  and  religion  was  forced  to  compromise  with  super- 
stition. Next  to  the  cross  on  Annio's  breast.  Mother 
placed  a  charm,  written  in  mysterious  Arabic  letters. 
The  blessing  of  the  priest  was  succeeded  by  magic  art, 
and  after  the  holy  water,  came  consultation  with  various 
magicians. 

All  was  in  vain.  Annio  became  ever  weaker,  and 
Mother  seemed  to  forget  that  she  had  any  other  children. 
An  old  woman  who  had  lived  with  us  for  many  years 
looked  after  us  as  well  as  her  extreme  age  permitted. 
Sometimes  we  did  not  see  our  mother  for  days.  She 
was  either  running  to  some  miraculous  place,  there  to 
tie  a  piece  from  a  dress  of  Annio's,  in  the  hope  that  the 
evil  and  mysterious  disease  might  be  left  there;  or  else 
she  was  going  to  some  nearby  village  whose  church  hap- 
pened to  be  celebrating  its  anniversary,  carrying  with 


THE   SIN   OP   MY  MOTHER  61 

her  a  yellow  wax  taper,  as  tall  as  our  sister,  made  with 
her  own  hands. 

Again  all  was  in  vain.  Our  poor  little  sister's  disease 
was  incurable.  Everyone  said  she  must  be  possessed. 
Mother  no  longer  doubted  it,  and  even  Annio  began  to 
suspect  it. 

After  all  other  means  had  been  exhausted,  she  came 
to  the  last  resort.  She  lifted  the  withered  child  in  her 
arms  and  carried  her  to  the  church.  My  older  brother 
and  I  shouldered  the  bed-clothes  and  followed  her. 
There,  before  the  very  ikon  of  the  Virgin,  upon  the 
damp,  cold  tiles,  we  made  up  the  bed  and  laid  upon 
it  the  sweetest  object  of  our  care,  our  one  and  only 
sister. 

She  was  to  remain  forty  days  in  the  church,  before 
the  holy  altar  and  the  ikon  of  the  holy  Mother  of  our 
Saviour.  Only  their  mercy  and  pity  could  now  save 
her  from  the  satanic  ailment  gnawing  at  the  tender  tree 
of  her  life.  It  had  to  be  forty  days  since  it  is  known 
that  in  the  invisible  fight  between  divine  Providence 
and  the  devils,  the  terrible  persistency  of  the  latter  was 
able  to  endure  for  that  length  of  time.  After  that 
length  of  time  Evil  is  defeated  and  retreats  shame- 
fully. Tales  are  rife  of  the  sufferer's  feelings  in  his 
organism,  the  awful  agonies  of  the  last  battle,  and  of 
his  seeing  the  enemies  departing  in  all  sorts  of  shapes, 
especially  at  the  moment  when  the  priests  carry  the 
holy  vessels,  chanting:   ''With  fear!" 


62  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Fortunate  those  who  have  strength  to  endure  the 
shock  of  the  battle.  The  weak  ones  are  broken  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  miracle  performed  within  them,  but 
they  do  not  regret  it;  for  if  they  lose  life,  they  gain 
something  far  more  precious:  the  salvation  of  their 
souls ! 

The  possibility  that  Annio  was  too  weak  to  withstand 
the  miracle  was  worrying  Mother.  No  sooner  had  she 
settled  her  in  her  bed  than  she  began  to  ask  her  how 
she  felt.  But  Annio  was  not  depressed.  The  sanctity  of 
the  place,  the  holy  ikons,  and  the  incense  had  a  kindly 
influence  over  her  spirit,  and  she  became  cheerful  and 
jesting. 

Mother  went  on:  ** Which  one  of  your  brothers 
would  you  like  to  have  stay  here  with  us,  as  a  play- 
mate?" she  asked  tenderly — ^"little  Christos,  or  little 
George?" 

Annio  gave  her  a  sidelong  glance  full  of  meaning, 
as  if  wishing  to  reprove  her  for  her  long  indifference 
to  us,  as  she  replied: 

"Which  one  do  I  want?  I  don't  want  one  without 
the  others.    I  want  all — all  the  brothers  I  have." 

Mother  felt  the  rebuke,  and  remained  silent.  Then 
she  returned  home  and  brought  our  youngest  brother 
to  the  church,  but  only  for  that  first  day.  Late  in  the 
evening  she  sent  the  other  two  home,  and  only  kept 
me  with  them. 

I  still  remember  the  impression  that  first  night  in  the 


THE    SIN   OF   MY   MOTHER  63 

church  made  on  my  childish  imagination.  The  feeble 
flames  of  the  tiny  oil  lamps  hanging  before  the  ikons 
barely  lighted  them  and  the  steps  in  front  of  them, 
leaving  us  in  a  blackness  far  more  awesome  and  terrifying 
than  if  we  had  been  entirely  in  the  dark.  Whenever  the 
nearest  light  to  us  flickered,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 
saint  hanging  on  the  wall  opposite,  in  his  flowing  red 
robes  and  with  his  crown  upon  his  head,  his  eyes  staring 
from  his  pale,  lifeless  face,  began  to  move  and  try  to 
detach  himself  from  the  wood  on  which  he  was  painted. 
And  again,  when  the  cold  wind  shrilled  through  the 
tall  church  windows,  shaking  their  little  panes  noisily, 
I  imagined  that  the  dead,  buried  in  the  churchyard,  had 
risen  and  were  trying  to  climb  the  walls  and  come  into 
the  church.  Trembling  with  horror,  I  fancied  I  saw  a 
skeleton  warming  his  fleshless  hands  at  the  little  char- 
coal fire  we  had  brought  with  us  in  a  brazier. 

And  I  dared  betray  nothing  of  my  fear.  I  was  proud 
to  have  been  chosen  to  stay  with  my  beloved  sister  and 
my  mother,  and  the  latter  would  undoubtedly  have 
packed  me  home  had  she  suspected  that  I  was  afraid  to 
remain  in  the  church.  So,  on  this  night,  and  on  those 
that  followed  I  endured  my  miseries  with  forced 
stoicism,  doing  my  duty  cheerfully,  and  trying  to  be  as 
helpful  as  possible.  I  tended  the  fire,  I  brought  water 
from  the  well,  and  on  week-days  I  swept  the  church. 
On  Sundays  and  holidays,  during  mass,  I  helped  my 
sister  to  walk  up  to  the  gate  of  the  altar,  while  the  Bible 


64  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

was  read,  and  to  stand  there.  Then  I  spread  the  home- 
spun rug  on  which  Annio  stretched  herself,  face  down- 
ward, so  that  the  priest  carrying  the  holy  vessels  might 
step  over  her.  At  the  end  of  the  service  I  brought  her 
pillow  to  the  left  door  of  the  Inner  Shrine,  where  Annio 
knelt  while  the  priest  laid  his  vestments  on  her  as  he 
took  them  off,  and,  touching  her  with  the  holy  lance, 
whispered:  "By  Thy  cross,  oh,  Christ,  the  enemy's 
tyranny  was  overthrown,  and  the  power  of  darkness 
lay  underfoot." 

During  all  these  ceremonies  my  poor  little  sister  fol- 
lowed me  with  her  slow  and  uncertain  steps,  her  sad  and 
melancholy  face  exciting  the  pity  of  the  congregation 
and  invoking  their  prayers  for  her  recovery,  a  recovery, 
alas !  that  was  terribly  slow  in  coming.  On  the  contrary, 
the  dampness  and  the  unaccustomed  cold  of  the  church, 
which  was  very  intense  during  the  night,  aggravated 
Annio 's  condition,  which  inspired  the  worst  fears  in  us. 
My  mother,  even  in  church,  began  to  show  a  lamentable 
indifference  to  everything  that  did  not  directly  concern 
her  sick  child.  She  no  longer  opened  her  lips  except 
to  speak  to  Annio,  or  to  pray  to  the  saints. 

One  day,  while  on  her  knees,  she  was  weeping  before 
the  ikon  of  the  Saviour,  I  approached  her,  unnoticed, 
and  heard  her  say : 

"Take  whichever  child  Thou  wilt,  only  let  me  keep 
Annio.  I  see  that  Thou  must  take  one.  Thou  hast  re- 
membered my  sin,  and  art  determined  to  have  one  of 


' 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  65 

my  children  to  punish  me.     I  thank  Thee,  oh  Lord." 

After  a  minute  of  silence  so  intense  that  I  could  hear 
her  tears  dropping  on  the  tiles,  she  sighed  from  the  depth 
of  her  heart,  and  added: 

**I  have  brought  two  of  my  children  to  Thy  feet. 
Take  them — but  let  me  keep  the  little  girl. ' ' 

As  I  heard  these  words  icy  shivers  ran  up  and  down 
my  spine,  and  my  ears  rang.  I  stopped  to  hear  no 
more.  My  mother,  overcome  by  her  great  grief,  fell  in 
a  heap  on  the  floor.  Instead  of  running  to  her  assistance, 
I  rushed  out  of  the  church  and  ran  like  mad,  screaming 
at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  as  if  Death  were  actually  pur- 
suing me. 

My  breath  gave  out  and  I  could  scream  no  more,  but 
my  teeth  chattered  as  I  ran  on  and  on.  When  next  T 
noticed  where  I  was,  I  found  myself  far  from  the  church. 
I  ventured  to  look  back.  No  one  was  chasing  me.  Little 
by  little  I  came  to  myself,  and  began  to  recall  all  my 
life.  I  remembered  all  the  love  and  tenderness  I  had 
felt  for  my  mother,  and  the  caresses  I  had  bestowed 
on  her.  Had  I  ever  failed  her  or  been  unkind  to  her  f 
No !  Yet  ever  since  my  sister  had  been  bom  I  had  not 
been  loved  as  I  should  have  been,  but  had  constantly 
been  pushed  aside.  Then  it  came  to  my  mind — and  for 
the  first  time  I  understood  its  meaning — that  my  father 
had  often  referred  to  me  as  his  slighted  one.  My  heart 
ached,  and  I  began  to  cry. 

'*My  mother  doesn't  love  me!"  I  sobbed.    "She  no 


66  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

longer  wants  me.  I  shall  never  again  go  back  to  the 
church."    I  returned  home  sad  and  discouraged. 

Soon  after^vards  Mother  came,  too,  with  Annio,  be- 
cause the  priest,  disturbed  by  my  cries,  had  gone  into 
the  church  and,  seeing  the  condition  of  our  sister,  had 
advised  Mother  to  take  her  home. 

"God  is  great,  my  daughter,"  he  had  said.  "His 
divine  mercy  reaches  all  over  the  universe.  If  your  little 
girl  is  to  be  cured.  He  can  cure  her  just  as  well  at 
home." 

Unhappy  the  mother  who  hears  such  words,  since 
this  is  the  usual  formula  of  the  priests  when  they  send 
away  those  about  to  die,  in  order  that  they  may  not 
breathe  their  last  in  the  church  and  thus  pollute  its 
holiness. 

When  I  next  saw  my  mother  she  was  sadder  than  ever. 
Toward  me,  however,  she  had  never  been  gentler  or 
kinder.  She  took  me  in  her  arms,  patted  me,  and  kissed 
me  tenderly,  over  and  over  again.  One  would  say  she 
was  trying  to  atone  to  me  for  what  she  had  prayed. 

That  night  I  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  When  I 
went  to  bed,  I  lay  awake  with  burning  eyes,  and  with 
ears  aware  of  every  movement  of  my  mother's,  who,  as 
usual,  was  watching  by  the  bedside  of  Annio.  It  must 
have  been  about  midnight  when  I  heard  her  move  around 
the  room.  At  first  I  thought  she  was  getting  ready  for 
bed,  but  I  was  mistaken,  for  presently  she  sat  down  and 
began  to  chant  in  a  low  voice.    It  was  the  death  lamen- 


1 


THE   SIN   OF   MY   MOTHER  67 

tation  for  our  father,  which  Mother  often  used  to  sing, 
before  Annio  was  taken  ill.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
heard  her  sing  it  since  then. 

The  chant  was  one  which  a  certain  ragged,  sunburned 
gipsy — renowned  in  our  district  for  such  improvisations 
— had  composed  at  the  express  order  of  my  mother,  at 
the  time  of  our  father's  death.  I  well  remember  the 
gipsy's  black  oily  hair,  and  his  small  flaming  eyes,  as 
seated  inside  our  door,  surrounded  by  the  kitchen  uten- 
sils he  had  come  to  re-tin,  he  composed  the  lamentation 
to  the  accompaniment  of  a  three-stringed  lyre.  Before 
him  our  mother  had  stood,  Annio  in  her  arms,  attentively 
listening  and  crying.  I,  holding  tight  to  her  dress,  hid 
my  face  in  its  folds,  since  the  sweeter  the  tones  of  the 
music,  the  more  terrible  had  seemed  the  face  of  the  wild 
singer. 

When  Mother  had  learned  the  sad  improvisation  by 
heart,  she  had  untied  the  corner  of  her  indoor  veil,  taken 
from  it  two  gold  pieces  and  given  them  to  the  gipsy. 
(At  the  time  we  still  had  many  gold  pieces.)  After 
paying  him  she  offered  him  bread,  wine,  and  other  food. 
While  he  was  eating  downstairs,  Mother,  on  the 
upper  floor  repeated  the  chant  again  and  again,  so 
that  she  might  burn  it  into  her  memory.  She  seemed 
to  find  it  very  beautiful  indeed,  for  when  she  saw  the 
gipsy  leaving,  she  rushed  after  him  and  presented 
him  with  a  pair  of  Father's  long,  loose  trousers. 

**May  God  absolve  your  husband,  bride,"  the  singer 


68  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

had  cried,  surprised,  and,  shouldering  his  kit,  had  gone 
his  way. 

That  chant  Mother  was  singing  now.  My  tears  flowed 
silently  as  I  listened  to  her,  and  I  dared  not  move.  Sud- 
denly the  scent  of  incense  came  to  my  nostrils. 

"Oh!  our  little  Annio  is  dead!"  I  said  to  myself, 
and  jumped  from  my  bed. 

I  found  myself  before  a  most  peculiar  scene.  Sister 
was  not  dead,  but  breathing  heavily,  as  usual.  Near  her 
was  laid  out  a  man's  attire,  in  the  order  in  which  it  is 
worn.  At  the  left  was  a  stool,  covered  with  black  cloth. 
A  bowl  full  of  water  was  on  it,  with  two  lighted  candles, 
one  on  either  side.  Mother,  on  her  knees,  was  waving 
the  incense-burner  before  these  objects,  attentively 
watching  the  surface  of  the  water. 

I  must  have  turned  yellow  with  fright,  for  she  has- 
tened to  reassure  me: 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  little  one,"  she  said  mys- 
teriously. "These  are  your  father's  clothes.  Come 
and  pray  to  him,  too,  so  that  he  may  save  our  little 
Annio." 

She  made  me  sit  down  by  her  side,  and  I,  carried 
away  by  her  exaltation,  between  my  sobs,  prayed: 

"Come,  Father,  come  and  take  me  instead,  so  that 
Annio  may  be  cured!" 

I  cast  a  pathetic  look  upon  my  mother,  to  show  her 
that  I  knew  she  had  prayed  for  my  death,  not  realizing 
that  I  was  pushing  her  despair  to  its  limit.     I  hope 


THE    SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  69 

she  has  forgiven  me.  I  was  little  then  and  unable  to 
judge  her  heart. 

After  a  few  moments  of  deep  silence  she  once  more 
waved  the  incense-burner,  and  again  concentrated  her 
whole  attention  upon  the  water  in  the  bowl. 

Suddenly  a  tiny  moth,  circling  over  the  water,  touched 
it  with  its  wings,  lightly  ruffling  its  surface.  Mother  bent 
reverently,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  as  if  she 
were  in  church  before  the  holy  altar. 

"Make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  my  boy,"  she  whispered, 
deeply  moved,  and  not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes. 
Mechanically  I  obeyed. 

When  the  little  moth  vanished  in  the  depth  of  the 
room.  Mother  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  arose  serene 
and  content. 

**Your  father's  soul  has  passed  by,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  still  following  the  course  of  the  moth  with  affec- 
tion and  worship.  Then  she  drank  from  the  water,  and 
made  me  drink,  too.  Afterwards  she  approached  the 
bed  of  little  Annio.  Sister  was  not  asleep,  nor  was  she 
altogether  awake.  Her  eyes  were  half  closed,  and 
through  the  dark,  thick  lashes  a  curious  light  could  be 
seen.  Mother  raised  the  emaciated  body  of  the  little 
girl  carefully.  Supporting  her  back  with  one  hand,  she 
brought  the  vessel  to  her  withered  lips  with  the  other. 

**Come,  my  little  love,  drink  from  the  water  that  wiU 
cure  you!" 

Annio  did  not  open  her  eyes,  but  she  seemed  to  hear 


70  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

the  voice  and  understand  the  words.  A  sweet  smile 
moved  her  lips,  then  she  drank  a  few  drops  of  that 
water  which  was  indeed  destined  to  cure  her.  As  soon 
as  she  swallowed  it,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  tried  to 
breathe;  a  gentle  sigh  escaped  her  lips,  then  she  fell 
back  upon  our  mother's  breast.  Poor  little  Annio  was 
at  last  free  from  pain. 

Many  people  had  criticized  Mother,  at  Father's  fun- 
eral, because  while  outsiders  lamented  him  loudly,  the 
tears  she  shed  were  silent.  The  poor  woman  had  acted  this 
way  through  fear  of  being  misunderstood,  and  of  going 
bej^ond  the  limits  assigned  to  youth.  As  I  have  already 
said,  Mother  was  extremely  young  when  she  became  a 
widow. 

When  sister  died,  IMother  was  not  much  older,  but  she 
cared  nothing  as  to  what  the  world  would  say,  and  with- 
out restraint  did  she  abandon  herself  to  her  heart- 
breaking sorrow.  The  whole  neighborhood  came  to  con- 
sole her;  but  her  terrible  grief  was  inconsolable,  and, 
seeing  her  lamenting  between  the  graves  of  our  father 
and  sister,  people  whispered  to  each  other: 

**She  surely  will  go  mad!" 

"She  will  leave  her  other  children  in  the  streets!" 
said  others,  afterwards,  meeting  us,  neglected  and  aban- 
doned. 

It  required  time,  it  required  all  the  counsels  and  even 
the  reprimands  of  the  Church  to  bring  her  to  her  senses, 
to  remind  her  that  she  had  living  children,  to  force  her 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  71 

to  assume  once  more  her  home  duties.  Only  then  did 
she  realize  where  the  long  illness  of  our  sister  had 
brought  us  to. 

All  our  money  had  gone  for  doctors  and  medicines. 
Many  of  our  rugs  and  coverings,  the  work  of  her  own 
hands,  she  had  sold  for  almost  nothing,  or  had  given 
away  as  rewards  to  magicians  and  miracle-workers. 
Others  of  our  goods  had  been  stolen  by  those  same  charla- 
tans, who  had  made  capital  out  of  the  disorders  reign- 
ing in  our  household.  Worst  of  all,  our  food  supplies 
were  all  exhausted. 

This  serious  condition  of  affairs,  instead  of  fright- 
ening our  mother,  seemed  to  double  the  energy  she  had 
possessed  before  our  sister  had  fallen  ill.  She  put  aside 
her  grief,  conquered  the  timidity  of  her  youth  and  sex, 
and  hired  herself  out  to  work  with  the  pick  in  the  fields, 
as  if  she  had  never  known  an  independent  and  comfort- 
able life.  For  a  number  of  years  thereafter  she  sup- 
ported us  by  the  sweat  of  her  brow.  Her  earnings  were 
small,  our  necessities  great,  yet  she  permitted  none  of 
us  to  relieve  her  by  working  with  her.  Nightly,  before 
the  open  fire,  we  discussed  the  plans  for  our  future. 
The  first-born  was  to  learn  our  father's  trade,  so  that 
he  might  take  his  place  in  our  family,  while  I  was  to 
emigrate  to  a  foreign  land.  Above  all,  we  were  to  con- 
tinue our  school,  and  finish  our  studies,  Mother  con- 
tinually repeating  the  proverb,  "An  uneducated  man  is 
like  unplaned  wood.'* 


72  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Our  economic  difficulties  reached  their  height  one  year 
when  there  was  a  bad  crop,  and  the  price  of  eatables 
rose.  Instead  of  letting  this  discourage  her,  Mother 
decided  to  adopt  a  little  girl  into  our  family — one  whom 
she  had  made  many  previous  efforts  to  adopt.  This 
event  changed  the  monotony  and  severity  of  our  lives, 
and  brought  some  cheerfulness  into  them. 

The  rite  of  adoption  was  made  a  festival.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  Mother  dressed  in  her  best  clothes,  and 
led  us  boys  to  church,  as  clean  and  tidy  as  if  we  were 
to  partake  of  communion.  At  the  close  of  service  we 
all  stood  before  the  ikon  of  Christ,  and  there,  sur- 
rounded by  the  congregation,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  child's  parents,  Mother  took  from  the  hand  of  the 
priest  the  adopted  girl,  promising  to  love  and  bring  her 
up  as  if  she  were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  bone  of  her  bone. 

The  little  girl's  entrance  into  our  house  was  made 
with  no  less  ceremony,  and  triumphantly.  The  oldest 
man  of  the  village  and  Mother,  leading  the  little  girl 
between  them,  headed  the  procession.  We  followed. 
Then  came  the  parents  and  relatives  of  our  new  sister, 
who  accompanied  us  to  the  very  entrance  of  our 
home. 

The  oldest  man,  lifting  the  girl  above  the  crowd, 
asked  loudly:  ** Which  one  of  you  present  is  more  her 
parent,  more  her  relative,  or  belongs  more  to  her  than 
Mistress  Michaliessa  and  her  people?" 

The  father  of  the  little  girl  was  pale,  and  stared  sadly 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  73 

in  front  of  him.  His  wife,  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  was 
weeping.  Mother  trembled,  fearing  lest  she  should 
hear  a  voice  cry,  "I!"  which  would  have  put  an  end 
to  her  happiness.  Fortunately  no  one  answered.  Then 
the  parents  of  the  child  embraced  her  for  the  last  time, 
and  went  away,  accompanied  by  their  relatives,  while 
ours,  with  the  oldest  man  of  the  village,  entered  our 
home  and  partook  of  our  hospitality. 

From  that  time  on  Mother  bestowed  upon  our  adopted 
sister  a  care  that  she  had  denied  to  us,  her  sons,  at  her 
age,  and  when  our  condition  was  much  more  prosperous. 
Later,  when  I  was  a  homesick  wanderer  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  my  other  brothers  were  undergoing  all  the 
hardships  of  apprenticeship,  and  sleeping  in  the  shops 
of  their  masters,  the  stranger  girl  reigned  in  our  house- 
hold as  if  it  had  been  her  own. 

Although  the  small  earnings  of  my  brothers  were  not 
enough  to  support  our  mother,  instead  of  using  them 
for  her  own  benefit,  she  laid  them  aside  for  the  dowry 
of  her  adopted  daughter,  and  continued  to  work  for 
the  support  of  both.  I  was  far  away,  and  for  many 
years  did  not  know  what  happened  in  our  home.  Before 
I  could  return,  the  adopted  girl  grew  up,  was  educated, 
dowried,  and  given  in  marriage  as  though  she  were  a 
real  member  of  our  family.  Her  marriage  was  a  real 
joy  for  my  brothers,  and  they  drew  sighs  of  relief  at 
getting  rid,  at  last,  of  the  added  burden.  Moreover, 
the  girl  had  never  felt  for  them  true  sisterly  love,  and 


74  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

finally  even  proved  ungrateful  to  the  woman  who  had 
done  so  much  for  her. 

There  was  thus  ample  reason  for  their  feeling  of  relief 
at  getting  rid  of  the  girl,  and  there  was  also  good  reason 
for  them  to  hope  that  Mother  had  learned  her  lesson. 
What,  then,  was  their  stupefaction  when  a  few  days 
after  the  marriage,  Mother  appeared,  tenderly  hugging 
another  little  girl,  this  time  a  wee  baby. 

"The  poor  little  thing!"  she  exclaimed,  bending  lov- 
ingly over  the  infant.  "As  if  it  were  not  enough  to 
be  bom  after  its  father  had  gone,  its  mother  died,  too, 
and  it  was  left  in  the  streets." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  unfortunate  occurrence  was  ac- 
tually pleasing  to  her,  and  she  exhibited  her  booty 
triumphantly  to  my  brothers,  who  stood  aghast.  Their 
filial  respect  was  great ;  their  mother 's  authority  equally 
80 ;  but  so  disgusted  were  they  with  this  action  of  their 
mother,  that  they  did  not  hesitate  politely  to  suggest 
to  her  that  it  would  be  better  if  she  gave  up  the  child. 
All  was  of  no  avail:  she  was  determined  to  keep  it. 
Only  then  did  they  openly  give  voice  to  their  dis- 
pleasure, and  threaten  to  withhold  their  earnings  from 
her.    Even  this  had  no  effect. 

"Don't  give  me  anything!"  she  cried.  "I  will  sup- 
port her  myself,  as  I  have  supported  you,  and  when 
my  little  George  returns  from  his  wanderings,  he  will 
dower  her  and  find  her  a  husband.  You  may  not  know 
it,  but  he  has  promised  that  to  me,    'Mother,'  he  said, 


THE   SIN   OP   MY  MOTHER  75 

'  I  will  support  you  and  the  child  of  your  soul. '  Those 
were  his  exact  words,  bless  him!" 

"Little  George,"  of  course,  was  I,  and  I  had  given 
the  promise  years  ago,  under  the  following  circumstances, 
when  Mother  was  working  to  support  our  first  adopted 
sister  as  well  as  ourselves.  During  my  vacations  I  used 
to  accompany  her  to  the  fields,  and  play  by  her  side 
while  she  dug  and  planted.  One  day  of  extreme  heat, 
she  almost  fainted,  and  was  forced  to  stop  work  and 
return  home.  On  the  way  we  were  overtaken  by  a  ter- 
rific rainstorm,  such  as  often  follows  great  heat  in  our 
part  of  the  country.  We  were  not  far  from  our  village, 
but  had  to  cross  a  small  stream  which,  swollen  by  the 
rain,  was  turbulently  rushing  along  between  its  banks. 
Mother  wanted  to  carry  me  across  on  her  shoulders, 
but  I  would  not  let  her. 

'  *  You  are  still  weak  from  your  fainting  spell, '  *  I  said. 
"You  might  let  me  fall." 

Before  she  could  hold  me  back  I  raised  my  dress  and 
sprang  into  the  stream.  Unfortunately  I  had  counted 
too  much  on  my  own  strength.  The  rushing  water  swept 
me  from  my  feet,  and  I  was  carried  away  like  a  nut- 
shell. After  that  all  I  remember  distinctly  was  my 
mother's  agonized  shriek  as  she  cast  herself  into  the 
water  after  me. 

It  was  little  less  than  a  miracle  that  we  were  not 
both  drowned.  The  stream  was  the  most  treacherous  in 
the  district.    Whenever  they  said  "The  river  took  him," 


76  MODERN  GREEK   STORIES 

they  meant  this  particular  stream.  Yet,  exhausted  as 
Mother  had  been,  and  handicapped  by  her  heavy  native 
costume,  which  alone  might  have  drowned  even  an  ex- 
pert swimmer,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  risk  her  life  to 
save  the  child  whom  formerly  she  had  been  willing  to 
offer  to  God  in  exchange  for  her  little  daughter. 

Somehow  she  saved  me.  When  we  reached  home,  and 
she  put  me  down  from  her  shoulder,  I  was  still  dazed, 
and  instead  of  attributing  the  accident  to  my  reckless- 
ness, I  thought  it  was  the  result  of  her  having  labored 
in  the  hot  sun. 

"Don't  w^ork  any  more.  Mother  mine!"  I  urged,  while 
she  was  changing  my  wet  clothes. 

"Who  will  feed  us,  if  I  don't  work?"  she  asked  with 
a  sigh. 

"I  will.  Mother,  I  will!"  I  cried,  with  boyish  eager- 
ness. 

"And  the  child  of  my  soul — ^who  will  feed  her?" 

"I  will  support  her,  too." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Mother  smiled  at  the  grandiose 
manner  in  which  I  made  this  declaration.  She  put  a 
stop  to  the  conversation  by  saying:  "You  had  better 
feed  yourself  first,  and  then  we'll  see." 

Not  long  after  this,  young  as  I  was,  I  went  away  for 
foreign  parts.  Mother  probably  did  not  consider  that 
promise  seriously.  I  did,  and  always  remembered  that 
I  owed  my  life  to  her  for  the  second  time.  I  kept  the 
promise  in  my  heart,  and  the  older  I  grew  the  more 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  77 

seriously  I  considered  myself  bound  by  it.    When  I  bade 
her  good-bye  I  said : 

"Don't  weep,  Mother,  dear.  I  am  going  to  make 
money,  and  you  must  not  forget  that  from  now  on  I 
am  going  to  support  you  and  your  adopted  daughter. 
Do  you  hear  ?    You  are  no  longer  to  work  yourself ! '  * 

I  was  far  from  realizing  that  a  boy  of  ten  not  only 
was  unable  to  support  his  mother,  but  would  find  it  hard 
to  support  himself.  I  could  not  imagine  the  terrible 
hardships  that  were  in  store  for  me,  nor  the  bitterness 
that  my  mother  was  to  taste  through  that  separation 
which  I  thought  would  enable  me  to  lighten  her  burden. 
For  years  I  was  unable  to  send  her  any  money — was 
unable  even  to  send  her  a  letter.  During  those  years 
she  continually  watched  the  road,  and  inquired  of  all 
travellers  if  they  had  seen  me  anywhere.  Sometimes 
people  told  her  that  I  was  so  miserable  in  Constanti- 
nople that  I  had  turned  Turk. 

**May  they  eat  their  tongues,  those  who  say  that!" 
answered  my  mother.    *  *  That  boy  could  never  be  mine. ' ' 

Yet,  after  a  while  the  thing  began  to  prey  on  her. 
She  would  shut  herself  up  in  front  of  the  ikonostase, 
and,  weeping,  would  ask  God  to  guide  me  to  return  to 
the  faith  of  my  fathers. 

At  other  times  people  would  tell  her  that  I  had  been 
shipwrecked  on  the  shores  of  Cyprus,  and  was  begging 
in  the  street  in  rags. 

"May  fire  burn  them!"  was  her  reply.    "It  is  their 


78  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

jealousy  that  makes  them  say  those  things.  My  son 
probably  has  made  a  fortune,  and  has  gone  to  visit  the 
Holy  Sepulchre." 

Yet  she  went  more  than  ever  on  the  street,  speaking 
with  the  travelling  beggars,  and  whenever  she  heard 
of  a  shipwrecked  sailor,  she  hunted  him  up,  in  the 
hope  of  discovering  in  him  her  own  son,  and  denying 
herself  to  give  to  him,  in  the  hope  that  others  might 
do  for  her  boy  what  she  was  doing  for  him. 

But  when  it  became  a  question  of  her  second  adopted 
daughter,  she  forgot  all  her  fears  concerning  me,  and 
used  me  as  a  threat  against  my  brothers,  telling  them 
that  I  should  put  them  to  shame  with  my  generosity 
when  I  returned  home.  She  announced  stoutly  that  I 
would  dower  and  find  a  husband  for  her  new  daughter, 
with  all  pomp  and  ceremony. 

"Yes,  you  may  not  know  it,  but  my  boy  has  promised 
that  to  me,  my  blessings  be  upon  him." 

Fortunately,  the  bad  news  about  me  was  not  true, 
and  when,  after  a  long  absence,  I  returned  home,  I  was 
in  a  position  to  keep  my  promise  as  far  as  my  mother 
was  concerned.  Toward  her  adopted  daughter,  how- 
ever, she  did  not  find  me  as  willing  as  she  had  hoped. 
On  the  contrary,  much  to  my  mother's  surprise,  I  ex- 
pressed myself  as  unwilling  to  support  the  girl. 

It  was  not  that  I  objected  to  my  mother's  weakness 
for  girls,  since  I,  too,  liked  them,  and  desired  nothing 
better  than  to  find  a  sister  at  home  whose  happy  face 


THE   SIN   OF  MY  MOTHER  79 

and  gentle  ministrations  would  banish  loneliness  from 
my  heart  and  help  to  wipe  the  vicissitudes  of  my  exile 
from  my  memory.  In  exchange  I  would  have  related 
to  her  the  wonders  of  foreign  lands,  the  details  of  my 
wanderings  and  of  my  achievements ;  I  would  have  been 
willing  to  buy  her  whatever  she  wished,  to  take  her  to 
dances  and  to  fairs,  to  dower  her,  and  finally  to  dance 
at  her  wedding. 

But  that  sister  I  imagined  as  beautiful  and  sympa- 
thetic, clever  and  cultivated,  bookish  and  skilled  in  em- 
broidery— in  short,  possessing  all  the  virtues  of  the  girls 
I  had  met  in  my  travels.  What  did  I  find  instead  ?  The 
exact  opposite!  Mother's  adopted  daughter  was  a  little 
misshapen,  hectic  child.  And,  worse  than  all,  she  was 
stupid. 

"Send  away  Katarinio,"  I  said  one  day  to  my  mother; 
' '  send  her  away  if  you  love  me.  I  am  speaking  to  you 
seriously.  I  will  get  you  another  child  from  Constanti- 
nople— a  pretty,  clever  child,  who  will  become  an  orna- 
ment to  our  house."  In  glowing  colors  I  went  on  to 
describe  the  other  orphan  I  was  to  get  for  her,  and  how 
much  I  should  love  her. 

When  I  looked  at  my  mother  I  saw  with  8UiT)rise  that 
great  silent  tears  were  running  down  her  pale  cheeks, 
while  her  eyes  expressed  indescribable  sorrow. 

"Alas!"  she  exclaimed  despairingly,  **I  had  hoped 
that  you,  at  least,  would  love  Katarinio,  but  I  was  mis- 
taken.    Your  brothers  don't  want  any  sister  at  all, 


80  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

while  you  want  a  different  one.  Is  the  poor  little  thing 
responsible  because  God  created  her  as  she  is?  If  you 
had  a  sister  of  your  own  who  was  neither  clever  nor 
pretty,  would  you  have  thrown  her  into  the  street  in 
order  to  take  another  one?" 

"No,  Mother,  certainly  not.  She  would  have  been 
your  own  child  as  much  as  I,  while  Katarinio  is  noth- 
ing but  a  stranger  to  us. ' ' 

*  *  No, ' '  my  mother  sobbed, '  *  she  is  not  a  stranger !  She 
is  mine!  I  took  her  from  the  dead  body  itself  of  her 
mother,  when  she  was  only  three  months  old,  and  when- 
ever she  wept,  I  offered  her  my  breast  to  make  her  think 
she  had  a  mother.  I  wrapped  her  in  your  swaddling 
clothes  and  rocked  her  to  sleep  in  your  cradle.  She  is 
my  child,  I  tell  you,  and  she  is  your  sister." 

After  these  words,  passionately  uttered,  she  raised 
her  head  and  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes.  She  waited 
as  though  insisting  upon  an  answer.  I  did  not  dare 
to  reply,  whereupon  she  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  went 
on  in  sad,  weak  tones : 

**What  can  I  do?  I,  too,  would  have  liked  her  dif- 
ferent; but  you  see  my  sin  has  not  yet  been  absolved, 
and  God  has  sent  her  to  me  such  as  she  is  to  test  my 
patience.    Forgive  me — I  thank  Thee,  oh.  Lord." 

She  placed  her  right  hand  upon  her  breast,  raised 
her  eyes,  full  of  tears,  to  the  heavens,  and  remained 
silent. 

"Mother,  don't  be  angry  with  me,  but  have  you  some- 


THE    SIN    OF   MY   MOTHER  81 

thing  weighing  on  your  heart  ? ' '  and  to  soften  my  ques- 
tion, I  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hand, 

"Yes,  I  have  something  heavy  there,  very  heavy,  my 
son.  Till  now  only  God  and  my  confessor  have  known 
it.  You  are  versed  in  books,  and  it  may  be  even  better 
to  tell  you  than  my  confessor.  Go  close  the  door,  and 
then  come  back  and  sit  by  me,  so  that  I  may  tell  you. 
Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  comfort  me  a  little,  to  have 
pity  on  me,  and  to  bring  yourself  to  love  Katarinio  as 
if  she  were  your  own  sister." 

Her  words,  as  well  as  the  way  in  which  she  said 
them,  troubled  me  very  much.  What  could  there  be 
that  Mother  wished  to  confide  to  me  apart  from  my 
brothers?  All  the  miseries  she  had  endured  during 
my  absence,  she  had  already  told  me.  Her  life  before 
that  I  knew  as  an  oft-told  tale.  What  could  there  be 
that  she  had  kept  from  us,  all  this  time,  and  had  only 
dared  disclose  to  God  and  to  her  confessor? 

When  I  came  back  to  sit  by  her,  my  knees  were  tremb- 
ling from  apprehension  of  I  knew  not  what,  while  my 
mother  hung  her  head,  like  one  conscious  of  a  terrible 
crime,  before  her  judge.  After  a  few  moments  of  op- 
pressive silence,  she  asked:  "Do  you  remember  our 
little  Annio?" 

"Certainly,  Mother.  I  couldn't  forget  her.  She  was 
our  only  sister,  and  she  breathed  her  last  before  my 
eyes." 

"Yes,"  my  mother  went  on  with  a  deep  sigh,  "but 


82  MODEEN   GREEK   STORIES 

she  was  not  my  only  daughter.  You  are  four  years 
younger  than  Christaki.  Between  you,  I  had  my  first 
daughter.  She  was  born  at  the  time  that  Photis,  the 
miller,  was  about  to  be  married.  Your  father  was  to 
be  the  best  man,  and  wanted  me  to  be  the  matron ;  there- 
fore he  had  the  marriage  postponed  for  forty  days,  in 
order  that  I  might  mingle  with  the  people  and  enjoy 
myself,  now  that  I  was  a  married  woman — as  a  girl 
I  never  went  out,  owing  to  the  strictness  of  your  grand- 
mother. 

"The  ceremony  took  place  in  the  morning,  and  in  the 
evening  all  the  guests  gathered  together  for  the  fes- 
tivities. Violins  were  playing,  the  guests  were  feasting, 
and  the  wine- jug  was  passing  from  hand  to  hand.  Your 
father,  who  was  of  a  jovial  disposition  and  making 
merry  with  the  best  of  them,  tossed  me  his  handkerchief, 
and  I  rose  to  dance  with  him.  I  was  young  and  loved 
to  dance,  so  we  started  and  the  others  followed;  but 
we  danced  better,  and  held  out  longer  than  anyone 
else. 

**  Toward  midnight  I  took  your  father  aside  and  said 
to  him:  'Husband,  I  have  a  baby  in  the  cradle,  and 
can't  stay  here  any  longer.  My  wee  one  must  be  hungry. 
I  cannot  nurse  her  here  before  everyone,  and  with  my 
best  gown  on,  too.  You  stay,  if  you  like,  and  enjoy 
yourself,  but  I  must  take  my  baby  and  go  home. ' 

**  *A11  right,  wife,'  answered  your  absolved  father, 
patting  me  on  the  back.    'Come  and  dance  once  more. 


THE   SIN   OF   MY   MOTHER  83 

and  then  we  will  leave  here.  The  wine  is  really  going 
to  my  head  a  little,  and  I  am  glad  of  an  excuse  to  say 
good-bye.  * 

"After  our  dance  we  took  our  leave.  The  bridegroom 
ordered  the  players  to  accompany  us  halfway  home. 
We  had  a  long  way  to  go,  the  marriage  having  taken 
place  in  Karsimaohala.  Our  servant  preceded  us  with 
a  lantern.  Your  father  carried  the  baby,  and  held  me, 
too,  by  the  hand. 

**  *Are  you  tired,  wife?' 

"  *Yes,  Michalio,  I  am  tired.* 

"  *Well,  just  a  little  courage  and  we'll  soon  be  home. 
I  '11  make  the  beds  myself.  I  am  sorry  I  made  you  dance 
so  much.* 

"  *I  don't  mind,  husband,'  I  answered.  'I  did  it  to 
please  you.    Tomorrow  I  can  rest.' 

**When  we  reached  home  I  nursed  the  baby,  while 
Father  made  the  beds.  Your  brother  was  sleeping  with 
Venetia  whom  I  had  left  to  guard  him.  Presently  we 
were  all  in  bed.  In  my  sleep  I  thought  I  heard  the 
baby  cry.  'The  darling!'  I  said,  'she  hasn't  eaten 
enough,'  and.  leaning  over  the  cradle  I  began  nursing 
her.  I  was  so  tired  I  couldn't  hold  myself  up,  so  I 
picked  her  up  from  the  cradle  and  took  her  into  my 
bed  to  nurse,  and  thus  I  fell  asleep. 

"It  was  dawn  when  I  awoke.  'I  had  better  put  the 
baby  back  into  its  cradle,'  I  thought.  When  I  went  to 
lift  it  up,  the  baby  was  still.    I  awoke  your  father  at 


84  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

once.    We  opened  its  swaddling  clothes  and  began  to 
rub  it.    The  child  was  dead. 

"'Wife,  you  have  smothered  my  child!'  said  your 
father,  beginning  to  cry.  I,  too,  cried  and  screamed 
aloud.    Your  father  put  his  hand  over  my  mouth. 

**  'Shut  up!  Why  are  you  screaming,  stupid?*  he 
said  roughly. 

"May  God  forgive  him,  but  that  was  the  way  he  spoke 
to  me,  although  in  all  the  three  years  we  had  been 
married  I  had  never  had  a  cross  word  from  him  before. 

"  *What  are  you  shouting  about?'  he  went  on.  'Do 
you  want  to  rouse  the  neighborhood,  and  have  everyone 
say  that  you  drank  too  much  last  night,  and  then 
smothered  your  own  child?' 

**He  was  right.  May  the  ground  in  which  he  lies 
be  blessed  by  God!  Had  people  known  the  truth,  I 
should  have  had  to  hide  myself  in  the  bosom  of  the 
earth.  But,  after  all,  a  sin  is  a  sin.  When  the  burial 
was  over  and  we  returned  to  our  house  I  aban- 
doned myself  to  my  grief.    I  did  not  have  to  mourn  in 

secret. 

*'  'You  are  young,  and  you  will  have  other  children,* 
everyone  told  me.  But  time  went  on,  and  God  sent  us 
none.  Then  I  said  to  myself:  'Divine  Providence  is 
punishing  me  because  I  proved  incapable  of  guarding 
the  child  given  to  me. '  I  was  ashamed  to  look  at  people, 
and  I  was  afraid  of  your  father.  He  pretended  not  to 
mind,  and  was  always  comforting  me  and  keeping  up 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  85 

my  spirits.  After  a  year,  however,  he  also  became  moody 
and  silent. 

"Three  years  went  by — three  years  in  which  I  did 
not  relish  a  mouthful  of  food — ^three  years  of  praying  at 
all  the  shrines.  Then  you  came,  and  I  was  thankful,  but 
not  satisfied.  Your  father  wanted  a  little  girl,  and  told 
me  so  one  day. 

**  'This  child  is  welcome,  Despenio,  but  I  wanted  a 
little  girl,*  he  said. 

"When  your  grandmother  made  her  pilgrimage  to 
the  Holy  Sepulchre,  I  sent  twelve  shirts  and  three  gold 
pieces  by  her,  to  procure  a  paper  of  forgiveness.  And, 
indeed,  the  very  month  in  which  your  grandmother 
returned  from  Jerusalem,  Annio  was  conceived.  Every 
little  while,  after  that,  I  would  call  in  the  midwife: 
'Come,  mistress,  come,'  I  would  say,  'and  see  if  it's 
going  to  be  a  girl. ' 

"  'Yes,  indeed,  it  will  be  a  girl.  Don't  you  see  that 
your  clothes  barely  meet,'  and  I  was  mad  with  joy. 

"When  the  child  was  born,  and  proved  to  be  a  little 
girl,  my  heart  returned  to  its  right  place.  We  called 
her  Annio,  the  name  of  the  departed  one,  pretending 
that  no  one  was  missing  from  the  home.  'I  thank 
Thee,  oh  Lord!'  I  kept  on  saying,  day  and  night.  'I 
thank  Thee,  I,  the  sinner,  whose  shame  Thou  hast  lifted, 
whose  sin  Thou  hast  forgiven.'  As  for  Annio,  she  be- 
came the  apple  of  our  eye,  and  you  almost  died  of 
jealousy.     Your  father  called  you  'his  slighted  one,* 


86  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

because  I  stopped  nursing  you  too  soon ;  and  sometimes 
he  scolded  me  because  I  neglected  you.    My  heart  ached 

A. 

for  you,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  simply  could  not 
let  Annio  go  from  my  arms,  for  fear  that  something 
might  happen  to  her.  And  although  your  blessed  father 
reproached  me  for  neglecting  you,  he  could  not 
himself  bear  even  to  have  a  drop  of  rain  fall  on 
Annio. 

"But  the  more  we  petted  the  darling  child,  the  more 
sickly  she  became.  You  boys  were  rosy  and  lively  and 
full  of  mischief.  She  was  quiet,  good,  and  ailing.  One 
might  have  said  that  God  had  repented  His  gift  to  us. 
Seeing  her  so  pale  I  could  not  help  remembering  the 
dead  one,  and  the  idea  that  I  had  killed  her  began  to 
possess  me  once  more.  And  then  the  second  one  died, 
too. 

**  Whoever  has  not  tasted  that  sorrow,  my  son,  cannot 
know  the  bitterness  of  the  cup.  Hope  of  having  another 
there  was  none,  since  your  father  was  dead,  llad  I  not 
found  a  parent  willing  to  give  me  his  little  girl,  I  should 
have  fled  away  to  the  mountains.  It  is  true  that  she 
did  not  prove  to  be  good-natured ;  but  so  long  as  I  had 
her  and  worked  for  her  and  took  care  of  her,  I  felt  her 
to  be  mine.  I  forgot  the  one  I  had  lost,  and  my  con- 
science was  at  peace.  It  is  true  she  was  a  terrible  trial 
to  me,  yet  at  the  same  time  she  was  a  consolation.  The 
more  I  suffer  and  endure,  the  less  God  will  punish  me 
for  the  child  I  smothered.    For  this  reason,  don't  ask 


THE   SIN   OF   MY  MOTHER  87 

me  to  change  Katerinio  for  a  good-natured  and  clever 
child,  and  n«ay  my  blessing  be  upon  you." 

"No,  Mother,  no!"  I  cried,  interrupting  her.  **I  ask 
for  nothing.  After  all  you've  told  me  I  beg  you  to 
forgive  my  unkindness.  I  promise  you  to  love  Katerinio 
as  if  she  were  my  sister,  and  never  again  to  say  a  dis- 
agreeable word  to  her." 

"May  the  blessings  of  Christ  and  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
be  upon  you!"  Mother  said,  with  a  sigh.  "You  see  my 
heart  aches  for  the  miserable  child,  and  I  don't  want 
anyone  to  talk  against  her.  God  has  willed  it.  Sinful 
and  unworthy  as  I  am,  I  have  shouldered  the  burden 
and  must  carry  it  uncomplainingly." 

This  confession  made  a  great  impression  on  me.  My 
eyes  at  last  were  opened,  and  I  was  able  to  understand 
many  of  my  mother's  actions  which  at  times  had  ap- 
peared to  be  either  sheer  superstition,  or  the  result  of 
monomania.  She  was  so  simple,  so  virtuous,  so  God- 
fearing that  her  terrible  misadventure  had  clouded  her 
whole  life.  To  be  conscious  of  a  sin,  to  feel  the  neces- 
sity of  atonement,  and  at  the  same  time  the  impossibility 
of  atonement — what  a  terrible,  what  an  unrelenting 
hell !  For  twenty-eight  years  the  poor  woman  had  been 
tormented,  and  had  been  unable  to  appease  the  pangs 
of  conscience. 

From  the  moment  of  hearing  her  sad  story  I  concen- 
trated all  my  efforts  on  lightening  her  sorrow.  I  tried 
to  impress  upon  her  the  fact  that  her  sin  had  been 


88  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

unpremeditated  and  against  her  volition.  I  dwelt  on 
the  great  mercy  of  God,  and  on  His  justice  in  judging 
us  according  to  our  thoughts  and  intentions.  At  times 
I  believed  my  efforts  to  be  crowned  with  a  measure 
of  success. 

However,  •  when,  after  another  absence  of  two  years, 
my  mother  came  to  visit  me  in  Constantinople,  I  decided 
to  do  something  more  drastic  for  her.  I  had  happened 
to  meet  the  Patriarch,  Joachim  the  Second,  at  the  house 
of  one  of  the  most  famous  families  of  the  town.  One 
day  when  we  two  were  walking  alone  in  the  pleasant 
shade  of  the  garden,  I  revealed  to  him  my  mother's 
story,  and  implored  his  cooperation.  His  high  position 
and  supreme  authority  in  religious  matters  must  con- 
vince my  mother  of  the  absolution  of  her  sin. 

The  venerable  and  never-to-be-forgotten  old  man, 
after  praising  my  religious  zeal,  willingly  promised  me 
his  aid.  Soon  afterwards  I  conducted  my  mother  to  the 
patriarchate,  and  presented  her  to  His  Holiness.  The 
confession  lasted  a  long  time,  and  from  his  manner  and 
gestures  I  realized  that  he  had  to  bring  to  bear  all 
the  strength  of  his  simple  and  forceful  arguments  to 
accomplish  the  result  he  desired. 

My  joy  was  indescribable.  My  mother  took  leave  of 
the  old  Patriarch  with  expressions  of  gratitude,  and 
left  the  patriarchate  as  happy  and  joyful  as  if  a  heavy 
stone  had  been  lifted  from  her  heart.  When  we  reached 
her  hotel,  she  took  from  her  bosom  a  cross,  a  gift  from 


THE    SIN    OF   MY   MOTHER  89 

His  Holiness,  and  kissed  it.  Her  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  she 
became  lost  in  thought. 

"The  Patriarch  is  a  fine  man,"  I  said.  "Don't  yon 
think  so,  Mother?" 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say.  Mother?"  I  asked,  with 
some  hesitation. 

"What  can  I  say,  my  son,"  she  answered  absently. 
* '  The  Patriarch  is  a  wise  and  holy  man.  He  knows  the 
intentions  and  wishes  of  God.  He  can  forgive  the  sins 
of  the  world — but  what  can  I  say?  He  is  a  celibate. 
He  has  never  had  children,  and  he  cannot  know  what 
it  is  to  kill  one's  baby." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  I  remained  silent. 


THE  GOD-FATHER 

By  George  Deosines 


THE    GOD-FATHER 


The  christening  of  the  child  was  to  take  place  in  the 
evening  because  the  priest  not  only  had  to  come  from 
a  neighboring  village,  but  was  busy  harvesting  his  com, 
and  had  no  other  time  at  his  disposal. 

From  the  little  church  we  came  down  to  the  house 
of  the  child's  parents,  where  a  simple  meal  of  cereals 
and  vegetables  awaited  us.  We  were  eight  in  all,  the 
priest,  the  god-father,  the  child's  parents,  some  relatives 
and  I,  a  self-invited  guest,  anxious  to  witness  a  village 
christening. 

The  god-father,  a  fat  peasant  from  a  neighboring  vil- 
lage, was  quite  well  along  in  years,  but  still  seemed 
youthful,  with  his  red  cheeks,  and  was  most  loquacious. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  respected  landowners  of  the 
village  and  of  the  whole  district,  and  as  a  mark  of 
honor  had  been  chosen  selectman  for  many  consecutive 
years.  He  sat  by  me  at  the  round  tavla,  which  served 
as  table,  and  charmed  me  with  his  lively  conversation, 
and  his  shrewd,  unaffected  remarks  on  many  subjects. 

"Has  your  honor  been  god-father  to  many  children?'* 

93 


94  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

he  suddenly  asked,  wiping  the  wine  from  his  moustache 
with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"No,  not  once,"  I  answered. 

"Let  me  make  a  wish,  then.  May  God  help  you  to 
christen  many,  and  may  they  all  live  to  grow  up  and  be 
prosperous, — but  let  them  be  either  all  boys,  or  all 
girls." 

*  *  Why  that  last  ?  "  I  asked  with  some  surprise. 

"So  that  you  may  not  bring  misery  into  the  world 
without  your  knowledge." 

"But  I  don't  understand.  What  difference  will  it 
make  if  they  are  of  both  sexes?" 

"Ah!  you  may  well  ask  me  that." 

I  could  not  understand  what  he  meant  to  imply.  **I 
am  asking  you,"  I  said. 

"This  is  not  the  moment  to  tell  you.  We  came  here 
to  talk  of  pleasant  things — to  have  a  good  time, ' '  and  to 
make  good  his  words  he  began  to  sing  the  "Song  of  the 
Partridge"  in  his  little  old  cracked  voice.  The  host 
strummed  an  accompaniment  on  a  home-made  lyre. 

**A  little  partridge  batlied  and  played,  in  a  cool,  crystal 
stream, 
But  when  I  sang  my  song  of  love,  sJie  never  answered 
me." 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  god-father  and  I  left 
the  little  farmhouse.    The  priest  had  already  gone. 


THE    GOD-FATHER  95 

"Now,  Uncle  Nasso,  you  will  tell  me,  won't  you,  why 
one  should  christen  only  boys  or  only  girls,  and  not  mix 
them  up?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to,  if  you  must  know;  though  it  al- 
ways upsets  me  to  tell  that  story.  But  never  mind.  My 
mistake  may  save  others.  Let's  go  yonder  to  the  thresh- 
ing floor  and  sit  under  the  large  pine  tree.  The  clouds 
have  stopped  the  wind  tonight,  and  we  sha'n't  catch 
cold." 

The  threshing  floor  was  dark  and  abandoned.  Around 
us,  among  the  dark  corn-stacks,  we  could  dimly  see 
moving  cattle,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night  wc  could 
hear  their  tinkling  bells  even  farther  than  we  could 
see  them.  We  sat  on  the  ground  and  leaned  against 
the  thick  trunk  of  the  tree.  The  old  man  took 
the  black  monk's  cap  from  his  head  and  scratched  his 
thick  white  hair.  Then,  in  a  low  voice,  he  began  to  tell 
his  story: 


II 


"A  league  from  here,  in  the  village  of  Galatsona  lives 
Stathis  Koutsonikolos.  He  is  admitted  to  be  the 
thriftiest  and  richest  man  in  Galatsona.  In  Kamaria  he 
has  as  much  land  as  two  yoke  of  oxen  can  plough  in  a 
day.  Also  he  owns  two  hundred  head  of  goats,  so  you 
can  see  how  well  off  he  is.  God  has  blessed  his  house- 
hold as  He  has  blessed  his  fields.    His  wife,  the  pretty 


96  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Almond,  gave  him  seven  children,  five  boys  and  two 
girls.  One  of  the  girls  I  christened  myself,  and  named 
her  Taso,  after  my  dear  lamented  sister.  She  was  born 
in  '60,  and  in  '77  was  like  a  peach  tree  in  blossom.  The 
Fates,  who  came  three  days  after  her  birth,  adorned 
her  with  all  the  graces  of  life.  She  was  tall  and  slender, 
with  eyes  as  black  as  the  olives  of  Salona.  Her  eye- 
brows curved  like  scimitars,  and  her  cheeks  bloomed 
like  full-colored  pomegranates.  The  lads  were  mad  over 
her,  and  the  girls  jealous.  She  was  the  first  at  every 
fair,  and  when  I  saw  her,  light  and  gay,  leading  every 
dance,  I,  swelled  with  pride,  would  take  a  silver  neck- 
lace from  my  bag  and  throw  it  over  her  head 
crying,  'Health  to  you,  my  dashing  Taso!  May  your 
god-father  live  long  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  you!* 

"That  fall  I  left  our  village  and  was  gone  for  a  few 
months.  First  I  went  to  Xerochory  to  attend  to  some 
contracts ;  then  to  Chalkis  to  be  witness  at  a  trial.  While 
I  was  there  everyone  said  to  me,  'Now  that  you  are 
here.  Uncle  Nasso,  why  don't  you  go  as  far  as  Athens 
to  see  the  great  world,  in  your  old  age?'  So  to  Athens 
I  went.  What  houses!  What  streets!  I  wandered  abont 
the  great  place  like  a  dog  who  has  lost  his  master.  Used 
to  the  mountains  and  to  the  mountain  trails  I  could  not 
help  slipping  on  those  smooth  marble  pavements.  Those 
houses,  higher  even  than  our  Mount  Karababa  in  Chal- 
kis, I  thought  might  tumble  on  my  bonnet  any  minute. 
IVfy  brain  was  spinning  in  its  shell,  so  I  says  to  mj^elf : 


THE    GOD-FATHER  97 

*Wliat  business  has  the  Fox  in  the  market  place?'  So 
I  packed  and  beat  it  for  Chalkis.  I  reached  there  on 
the  second  day,  and  stayed  for  about  a  week  with  some 
people  from  my  village,  and  after  that  took  the  road 
back  home  to  Gerake.  I  got  there  in  the  evening,  and 
the  next  morning  who  should  come  to  see  rae  but 
Stathis,  my  Taso's  father,  from  Galatsona. 

*  *  *  "Welcome  home ! '  says  he. 

"  'Well  met!'  says  I. 

"He  asked  me  first  how  I  got  along  in  my  travels, 
and  from  one  thing  to  another  we  got  to  talking  about 
his  affairs.  'While  you  were  away,  my  old  Nasso,'  says 
he,  'great  things  have  happened  in  my  household.'  His 
face  was  laughing.  I  could  see  he  had  some  good  news 
to  tell. 

"  'What  is  tickling  you?'  I  asked. 

"  'Well,  Uncle  Nasso,  I  have  got  your  god-daughter 
engaged. ' 

"  'That  so?     And  to  whom?' 

"  'To  a  handsome  lad  from  beyond  the  border.' 

"  'Good  luck  to  them,  and  a  happy  wedding  day! 
And  where  did  you  happen  to  find  the  bridegroom,  if  I 
may  ask?    Is  he  new  in  our  village?' 

"  'Yes.  The  Master  brought  him  over  as  keeper  for 
his  olive  orchards.  From  the  first  day  Taso  noticed 
him,  and  the  boy  was  struck  with  her.  I  talked  it  over 
with  the  Master,  who  told  me  that  he  was  a  good  boy, 
well-to-do,  and  from  good  people.     At  home  he  had  a 


98  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

quarrel  with  some  one.  He  shot  at  him  and  wounded 
him,  and  had  to  leave  Turkish  soil  and  come  over  here. 
To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  Master  settled  it  all  in 
a  few  days,  and  by  Christmas  the  wedding  will  take 
place.  They  are  a  good  match  and  love  each  other, 
Nasso.    I  '11  send  you  the  boy  this  evening  to  look  over. '  ' ' 

III 

"At  sunset  my  door  opened,  and  in  came  a  strapping 
youth  of  about  twenty-five,  fine  looking,  and  with  a 
black  moustache.  He  knelt  before  me,  kissed  my  hand, 
then  sat  beside  me  and  we  started  chatting. 

"  'My  boy,  what  village  do  you  come  from?' 

"  *I  come  from  Promyri.' 

'*  'Indeed!  I  was  there  once.  Let  me  see,  that  was 
about  twenty-five  years  ago.  I  went  there  to  buy  a 
mare.    Is  Manolis,  the  miller,  still  living?' 

"  'Why,  he  was  my  uncle.    He  died  six  years  ago.* 

"  'And  his  sister,  Christo's  widow?' 

"  'She  was  my  blessed  mother.* 

' '  '  What !  You  are  her  son.  You  don 't  say  so.  Why, 
I  christened  a  child  of  hers.' 

"  'So,  we  are  relatives,'  says  he  joyously.  'We'll 
be  double  relatives  now.* 

"  'My  boy,'  I  said,  'tell  me  your  name.' 

"  'Yannios  Zesis.' 

"  'Then  you  are  my  god-child.    You  were  just  seven 


THE    GOD-FATHER  99 

days  old,  and  dying.  I  happened  to  be  there,  and 
christened  you.  I  never  thought  you  would  live  to 
become  such  a  strapping  lad.' 

"The  boy  Avas  delighted.  Once  more  he  took  my  hand 
and  kissed  it.  'It  was  good  luck,'  says  he,  'for  my 
Taso  and  me  to  have  the  same  god-father.  Now  you 
must  also  be  my  best  man.' 

"For  a  spell  I  had  forgotten  that  Taso  was  my  god- 
daughter. When  he  spoke  of  it,  something  like  a  black 
cloud  covered  my  mind. 

"  'Listen,  Yannios,  I  can't  be  your  best  man,  and  you 
can't  have  Taso  for  jonr  wife,  either.  Don't  you  see, 
you  are  both  my  god-children.  That  makes  you  brother 
and  sister.' 

"Had  a  thunderbolt  struck  Yannios  he  could  not  have 
looked  worse.  He  was  pale  as  a  wax  taper.  The  blood 
seemed  to  have  left  his  veins.  'Not  marry  Taso?*  he 
cried.  'Is  this  the  time  to  tell  me  that?  I  wouldn't 
be  honest  to  drop  her  now.' 

"  'And  you'll  be  damned  forever  if  you  marry  your 
sister. ' 

"He  began  to  cry,  that  big  strapping  giant  of  a  boy — 
to  cry  like  a  baby.  My  heart  was  aching  for  him,  but 
what  could  I  do?    Fate  had  written  it  so. 

"Yannios  got  up  and  wiped  his  eyes.  His  face  had 
changed,  and  he  looked  like  a  madman.  'Whatevei-  I 
do,  god-father,  don't  curse  me,'  he  said,  as  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  from  my  sight.    I  did  not  close  my  eyes 


100  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

all  night  long.  I  kept  thinking  of  that  look  on  Yannio's 
face,  and  of  his  last  words.  An  evil  foreboding  was  in 
my  heart.  Just  before  daybreak  I  heard  the  dog  bark. 
Someone  was  coming.  Then  someone  was  knocking  at 
the  door. 

"  'Who  is  there?'  I  asked,  springing  up  from  my  mat. 

**  'It's  me,  Yannios!'  said  a  hoarse  voice. 

**  'What  do  you  want  here,  at  such  an  hour,  my  boy?' 

"  'Open,  god-father,  open!' 

"I  unlocked  the  door  and  he  came  in.  The  dim  light 
from  the  embers  of  the  fire  fell  on  him.  What  a  look! 
I  shall  never  forget  it.  His  eyes  bulged  out  as  if  he 
were  a  killed  lamb. 

"  'If  I  can't  have  her,  then  no  one  else  shall  have 
her,  either,  and  I  won't  let  her  live  in  the  village, 
jilted!'    He  spoke  as  if  talking  to  himself. 

"  'What  are  you  saying,  my  boy?  Of  whom  are  you 
speaking?'  I  cried,  the  shivers  running  up  and  down 
my  spine. 

"  '  Of  Taso.  I  have  killed  her ! '  He  showed  the  rifle 
he  was  holding  in  his  hand. 

"I  stood  there  like  a  piece  of  stone.  My  voice  stuck  in 
my  throat.  I  could  neither  see  nor  hear.  Then  I 
dropped  in  a  heap  on  the  chest.  As  if  in  a  dream  I 
heard  Yannios'  last  words  to  me: 

"  'Good-bye  to  you,  god-father.  Never  ask  about  me 
again.    Some  day  a  bullet  will  get  me,  too.' 

"He  told  the  truth.     Nothing  was  heard  of  him  for 


THE    GOD-FATHER  101 

a  year.     Then  word  came  that  he  had  been  killed  in 
Makrynitsa." 


IV 


The  old  peasant  rose,  covered  his  head  with  his  black 
cap,  and  said:  "You  have  learned  what  you  wanted  to 
know.    Now,  good-night  to  you." 

I  did  not  move  from  my  place,  neither  did  I  return 
his  salutation.  In  my  mind  I  could  see  enacted  on  the 
earth's  infinite  stage,  the  village  tragedy  which  the  old 
selectman  had  related  to  me  while  my  eyes  followed  his 
white  shadow  fading  gradually  into  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 


MANGALOS 
By  Geegorios  Xenopoulos 


1 


MANGALOS 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  summer  time.  I  was  about 
twelve  years  old,  and  was  playing  with  my  brother  and 
my  sisters  in  the  garden  when  we  heard ,  noises  and 
murmurs  from  the  street. 

"That  must  be  crazy  Costas,"  I  said,  ready  to  run. 

**It  may  be  the  clown!"  said  my  brother  more  hope- 
fully, though  ready  to  follow  me. 

"And  what  if  it  is  a  runaway  ox?"  suggested  my 
sister.    "You'd  better  wait." 

We  could  now  hear  the  barking  of  dogs  and  cries 
of  fear.  Whenever  an  ox  escaped  either  from  Hanunos' 
slaughter  house  or  from  the  wharfs  of  Marine  Street 
where  the  ships  from  Morea  unloaded  their  cargoes,  the 
street  was  not  safe;  so  instead  of  running  out  of  doors 
we  rushed  upstairs  and  looked  out  of  one  of  the  win- 
dows of  our  living  room. 

The  street  was  in  uproar ;  men  and  women,  hurried  by 
curiosity,  were  running  from  the  streets  nearby  to  see 
what  was  up.  People  came  out  of  the  shops,  houses,  and 
taverns.  The  windows  were  crowded  with  wondering 
girls'  heads;  old  women  stood  in  the  doorways,  and  the 
children  of  the  neighborhood  were  watching  eagerly  from 
the  street  corners,  ready  to  run  back  to  shelter. 

105 


106  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it,  my  son?" 
"Just  what  is  the  matter,  good  Christians?" 
Something  was  coming  from  far  away,  from  Hammos. 
A  big  and  strange  parade.  At  the  head  of  it  came  "the 
little  fish,"  street  urchins,  dirty  and  ragged,  jumping 
with  excitement  as  they  turned  back  to  look  at  the  sight. 
Then  came  an  empty  space  and  then  a  lot  of  people, 
a  great  dark  crowd,  which  jammed  the  whole  width  of 
the  street  and  seemed  to  have  no  end.  In  the  middle 
of  the  empty  space,  nearer  to  the  urchins  than  to  the 
crowd  behind,  we  saw  a  man,  the  hero  of  this  parade. 
As  soon  as  we  caught  sight  of  him,  even  before  we 
learned  who  he  was,  we  felt  a  cold  shiver  of  fear.  Had 
it  been  an  ox  we  could  never  have  been  moved  so  much. 
Wrapped  in  a  white  woolen  peasant  cape,  though  it  was 
in  the  heart  of  the  summer,  with  new  highland  shoes, 
and  a  worn-out  pair  of  trousers,  he  walked,  thin  and 
tall  and  pale — like  a  ghost.  With  coal-black  beard  and 
long,  curly,  thick  hair  that  seemed  never  to  have  had 
any  dealings  with  a  comb,  and  was  covered  with  a  piece 
of  black  cloth  bound  into  a  cap,  the  man  was  advancing 
with  the  queerest  step  one  could  imagine.  Had  he  been 
a  crazy  drunkard,  he  would  never  walk  that  way.  You 
might  have  thought  his  shoes — the  only  new  article  he 
was  wearing — stepped  for  the  first  time  on  the  stone 
pavement  of  the  street,  or  that  the  street  was  scattered, 
here  and  there,  with  burning  coals  which  he  was  trying 
to  avoid.    He  was  going  now  this  way  and  now  that, 


MANGALOS  107 

mostly  sideways.  He  would  sometimes  take  a  step  back 
and  dive  into  the  air  just  as  a  poor  diver  might  jump 
into  the  sea.  Hop!  Hop!  For  a  moment  he  would 
lean  over  as  if  he  were  about  to  fall,  but  with  a  move- 
ment of  his  arm  which  he  thrust  from  the  cape,  he  would 
recover  his  balance  and  make  an  abrupt  sideward  move. 
I  believe  the  empty  space  about  him  was  left  because 
of  his  irregular  walk.  Without  meaning  to,  he  kept  the 
people  away  from  him ;  and  the  children  from  the  street 
corners  stepped  back  toward  the  wall  as  he  passed  them 
in  mortal  fear  that  he  might  fall  on  them. 

He  spoke  no  word  and  looked  at  nobody  and  at  noth- 
ing. His  eyes,  small  and  black,  like  lights  that  had  gone 
out,  were  fixed  on  empty  space.  One  could  hear  the 
shouts  of  the  men  running  ahead  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
him,  and  the  general  hubbub  that  rose  from  the  distant 
crowd,  making  a  long  train  behind  him,  and  mingled 
with  the  barking  of  the  dogs.  The  urchins  ahead  of 
him  and  the  people  that  were  behind  and  next  to  him 
were  serious  and  silent,  and  their  silence — I  might  al- 
most say  respect — made  his  passing  even  more  mys- 
terious. If  he  were  crazy  or  drunk,  the  urchins  would 
surely  pest  him  and  jeer  at  him.  If  he  were  a  bandit, 
a  runaway,  or  a  criminal,  that  Hammos  gang,  who  were 
so  proud  of  their  strength,  would  have  caught  him. 
What  in  the  world  could  this  man  be,  and  why  was  he 
followed  by  this  crowd? 

A  boy  walking  behind  him  was  carrying  a  big  pack 


108  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

of  clothes  and  blankets  of  a  faded  color,  bound  with  an 
old  rope.  At  the  boy's  side  and  at  the  head  of  the 
serious  looking  escort,  I  saw  Yannes  Mangalos,  our  good 
neighbor,  the  butcher,  who  was  the  father  of  Mary,  my 
girl-friend  of  my  own  age.  He  was  talking  in  a  low 
voice  to  his  companions  and  gesticulating  with  excite- 
ment while  he  often  pointed  at  the  strange  man.  It 
was  evident  that  Yannes  Mangalos,  the  father  of  my 
little  girl-friend,  was  very  much  moved.  His  round, 
ruddy  face  seemed  to  me  to  have  lost  its  color,  but  I 
could  not  say  whether  it  showed  joy,  astonishment, 
worry,  sorrow,  anger  or  fear.  Everything  at  that  hour 
seemed  to  me  strange  and  unexplainable.  I  was  eagerly 
listening  for  the  word  that  would  explain  it  all. 

At  last,  I  heard  it.  As  the  tall  man  with  the  cape 
passed  our  window,  and  we  were  watching  him  from 
behind,  we  were  struck  with  the  appearance  of  his  shoul- 
ders, which  seemed  to  be  of  different  height.  Just  then, 
Taso,  the  weaver  woman,  who  lived  across  the  street 
and  had  two  great  eyes  that  made  me  always  afraid, 
raised  her  voice  and  spoke  plainly  and  clearly  to  another 
woman  neighbor. 

"Isn't  he  Constantine,  the  brother  of  Mangalos,  who 
has  spent,  oh  my  eyes!  fifteen  years  in  prison  for  kill- 
ing Kalligeros?" 

"Bah!  Bah!"  exclaimed  the  other  woman,  "and 
today,  my  son,  his  term  has  come  to  an  end  and  he  is 
out  again!" 


MANGALOS  109 

"Sure  enough!    Free  again!" 

At  that  moment  the  crowd  turned  left  at  the  first 
corner,  which  in  our  neighborhood  was  known  as 
Mangalos'  corner,  because  the  Mangalos  home  was 
there.  Those  who  found  room  slipped  behind  Con- 
stantine  and  his  brother.  The  others  were  jammed  at 
the  crossing,  pushing  each  other  and  standing  on  tip- 
toe to  see  how  the  man  just  freed  would  step  on  the 
threshold  of  his  home  after  fifteen  years  in  prison. 
There  was  some  good  reason  for  the  curiosity  of  the 
crowd  that  had  rushed  to  the  place  to  see  this  sight.  In 
truth,  it  was  something  one  could  not  see  every  day! 

Now  that  we  had  found  out  the  cause  of  it  all  and 
felt  sure  that  we  were  not  running  any  risk  with  lion 
or  ox,  we  ran  downstairs  and  mingled  with  the  crowd. 
We  had  enough  courage  then  to  slip  between  the  big 
men's  legs  and  to  reach  Mangalos'  home,  but  mother 
interferred  with  our  intentions  and  sent  the  servant  to 
pick  us  up. 

I  don't  remember  whether  I  learned  Constantine  Man- 
galos' story  on  that  day  or  later.  But  I  will  tell  it 
to  you  as  I  know  it. 

He  was  twenty-five  years  old  before  he  got  into 
trouble,  a  fine  man  and  a  butcher  by  trade,  like  his 
brother.  As  most  people  were  in  Zante,  at  that  time,  he 
was  a  devoted  radical  and  a  blind  follower  of  Lom- 
bardos,  the  leader  of  his  party.    Lombardos  was  then  in 


110  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

all  his  glory  and  the  people's  idol,  the  object  of  their 
worship.  They  had  him  for  a  second  god  and  sang 
about  him : 


(( 


Lombardos  mine,  your  way  may  lead 
Through  lovely  meadows  green, 
And  may  you  feed  your  riding  horse, 
In  fields  of  royal  mint. 


"I  wish  the  hills  might  stoop  for  me, 
To  see  the  town  of  Athens, 
And  hear  my  own  Lombardos  speak, 
Before  the  people's  fathers." 

But  the  much  beloved  Lombardos  had  an  enemy. 
Rather,  many  enemies,  I  should  say;  for  the  party  of 
nobles  was  not  small  even  at  that  time.  But  one  was 
counted  above  all  the  others;  Kalligeros,  a  lawyer  and 
a  journalist,  a  man  with  good  brains  and  with  a  strong 
and  fearless  pen.  He  had  a  paper  of  his  own  and  in  its 
columns  he  knocked  relentlessly  at  Lombardos  and  his 
party.  Of  course,  the  followers  of  Lombardos  struck 
back  often,  either  with  their  leader's  pen  or  with  some 
hired  man's  club.  Sometimes  with  both.  But  the  ear 
of  Kalligeros  "would  not  sweat  to  anything"  and  he 
continued  to  wage  war.  One  Sunday  morning,  his  paper 
came  out  with  a  terrible  article,  the  worst  of  all.  It 
must  have  contained  some  great  truth  or  some  great  lie 


MANGALOS  111 

because  Lombardos  himself  was  deeply  hurt,  and  not 
only  was  he  hurt — which  might  have  happened  more 
than  once — ^but  he  showed  it,  too.  His  followers  saw 
him  sad  that  day  and  heard  him  say  a  few  angry  words. 
One  of  them,  whether  really  angry  or  anxious  to  dis- 
play his  loyalty,  dropped  a  word  in  the  leader's  parlor. 

"That  scoundrel  needs  killing!'* 

Did  Lombardos  hear  this?  Or  was  he  too  troubled  to 
hear  what  had  been  said?  Nobody  knows.  But,  it 
seems,  he  said  nothing.  Neither  yes  nor  no.  Or  if  he 
did  say  a  few  words  later,  the  usual  ones,  to  calm  down 
the  spirits  of  his  men — for  he  always  liked  to  mix  a 
little  water  with  the  wine  of  his  followers — Constantine 
Mangalos  had  not  heard  them.  He  had  already  rushed 
out  of  the  parlor  beside  himself. 

"Where  are  you  going,  fellow?"  asked  his  friend 
Klapatsas,  the  pet  of  the  Hammos  gang,  who  met  him 
in  the  hall. 

"Let  me  go,  damn  him!"  Constantine  roared  and  ran 
down  the  stairs  as  if  he  was  chased  by  somebody.  His 
friend  Klapatsas  followed  him. 

This  had  happened  Sunday  noon.  On  the  same  day, 
Kalligeros  was  found  dead.  At  midnight,  as  he  was 
going  home  from  the  club,  three  shots  were  fired  at 
him.  The  assassination  stirred  up  all  the  island  of 
Zante.  It  caused  so  much  sensation  that  the  authorities 
were  obliged  to  hunt  up  the  assassins  with  unusual  zeal 
and  actually  to  arrest  them— a  very  rare  event  in  those 


112  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

days  of  party  terror.  They  proved  to  be  Constantine 
Mangalos  and  his  friend  Klapatsas.  They  were  be- 
trayed by  a  woman  who  had  seen  and  recognized  them. 
At  the  end  they  confessed  themselves.  The  trial  was 
quick  and  short.  They  were  hit  hard;  fifteen  years 
for  the  one  and  ten  for  the  other.  Lombardos  was  un- 
willing to  do  anything  in  their  behalf  and  he  did  not 
even  try  to  influence  the  agents  of  justice,  for  fear  of 
his  enemies  who  had  spread  the  rumor  that  he  had  set 
these  men  to  kill  Kalligeros.  Mangalos,  however,  de- 
clared before  the  court  in  plain  words  that  he  had  not 
been  influenced  by  anyone,  that  he  had  been  actuated 
only  by  his  own  feelings  and  that  he  had  alone  come 
to  the  conclusion  to  offer  himself  "as  a  sacrifice."  For 
it  had  made  a  terrible  impression  on  him  to  see  Lom- 
bardos, his  god,  made  miserable  because  of  Kalligeros 
and  his  article.  He  also  said  that  he  had  influenced 
his  friend  Klapatsas  to  help  him  in  the  crime  of  re- 
venge. This  explanation,  coming  with  all  sincerity  from 
an  otherwise  blameless  man  whose  feelings,  stirred  up 
by  his  faith  in  his  ideal,  had  made  him  a  criminal  in 
an  unlucky  hour,  not  only  cleared  Lombardos  from  all 
suspicion  but  it  lightened  the  position  of  Mangalos  him- 
self. It  was  his  confession  and  no  influence  from  the 
party  leader  that  induced  the  court  to  impose  a  lenient 
sentence  on  him.  But  his  fifteen  years  were  spent  in 
the  dark  prison  without  a  single  day's  grace;  and  when 
the  last  day  had  come,  his  brother  Yannes  went  to  pay 


MANGALOS  113 

all  his  expenses  before  they  could  set  him  free.  So  we 
saw  him  suddenly  in  that  summer  afternoon,  returning 
to  his  father's  home  to  start  life  again. 

Start  life  again!  Easily  said!  But  is  it  so  easy  for 
a  man  who  has  been  shut  up  in  a  prison  from  the  twenty- 
fifth  to  the  fortieth  year  of  his  life  to  make  a  new  begin- 
ning? Constantine  Mangalos  had  even  forgotten  how 
a  man  walks!  Had  we  not  seen  him?  A  crazy  drunk- 
ard would  never  walk  that  way! 

From  our  attic  window  we  could  see  a  back  window 
of  Mangalos'  home  opening  on  their  small  yard,  which 
was  surrounded  by  a  high  and  blackened  old  wall.  At 
that  window  I  happened  to  see  Mangalos  again,  about 
five  or  six  days  afterward.  He  was  sitting  before  the 
window,  leaning  his  hands  on  the  bare  sill  and  looking 
at  something  in  front  of  him,  fixedly  and  persistently. 
As  my  eyes  lighted  suddenly  on  his  bare  head  and  his 
pale  face,  which  appeared  small  under  his  thick  long 
hair,  I  was  frightened  and  drew  back.  Then  I  peeped 
out  again  with  some  hesitation,  and  when  I  became  sure 
that  he  would  not  move  his  glance  from  the  one  point, 
I  took  courage  to  watch  him. 

The  more  I  watched  him  the  more  I  wondered. 

I  was  still  a  chilZ  feut  somehow  I  could  tell  one  crime 
from  another.  The  man  who  had  killed  in  a  moment 
of  deep  feeling,  without  intereurt  or  hatred,  could  never 
be  for  me  like  the  ordinary  ''terrible  criminal"  or 
** bloody  robber."    In  my  child's  conscience,  even  with- 


114  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

out  knowing  the  terminology,  I  could  distinguish  a 
political  crime  from  a  common  one.  But  a  murderer 
was  always  a  murderer  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  the 
horror  of  it.  Then  there  were  the  angry  criticisms  of 
other  people,  the  aversion  and  horror  of  the  neighbors, 
the  fear  and  terror  of  women  and  children.  Once  I 
had  heard  a  woman  neighbor  saying  to  my  mother: 
"The  criminal,  the  scoundrel,  who  blackened  the  hon- 
orable name  of  Mangalos!  Why  couldn't  they  let  him 
die  in  bonds,  my  lady  ?  Why  have  they  let  him  out  and 
brought  him  here  in  the  midst  of  us?  We  can't  be  safe 
even  in  our  homes  now!  Who  knows  what  bad  things 
he  will  manage  to  do  again  ?  God  preserve  us,  my  lady, 
from  such  men!" 

All  this  impressed  me  greatly.  In  my  imagination, 
the  ex-convict  was  unlike  any  of  us.  He  must  be  a 
bad  man  and  one  must  see  his  bad  character  painted 
on  his  very  face.  For  that  reason  the  more  I  looked 
at  him  the  more  I  wondered.  No  trace  of  such  bad 
character,  no  trace  of  inner  ugliness  could  be  seen  on 
that  pale  face,  with  its  unkempt  hair  and  beard ;  nothing 
but  the  misery  of  a  long  imprisonment.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  could  detect  a  strange  beauty,  almost  a  saintly 
look,  something  noble  and  sad  and  martyr-like  on  his 
features,  and  above  all,  in  his  dark  eyes  that  seemed 
lost  in  dreams  under  their  care-blackened  eyelashes. 

It  may  seem  strange  but  I  must  say  it :  In  the  chapel 
of  our  neighborhood,  by  the  right  post  of  the  Holy 


MANGALOS  115 

Gate,  there  was  a  picture  of  the  beheading  of  St.  John. 
I  could  remember  distinctly  the  head  of  John,  the  Fore- 
runner, as  it  lay  on  a  plate  held  by  a  soldier.  It  was 
pale,  sad,  and  hairy.  I  was  reminded  most  vividly  of 
this  head  when  I  saw  Constantine  Mangalos  leaning  on 
his  window.  In  my  imagination  I  saw  iron  bars  as  I 
had  often  seen  them  in  prison  windows.  That  man  still 
seemed  to  me  a  prisoner  even  in  his  own  house.  I  saw 
him  in  the  midst  of  a  martyrdom  cleansing  him  of  his 
crime  in  this  world  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  him 
as  of  a  repentant  sinner.  Unexpectedly  and  unwillingly, 
I  began  from  that  day  on  to  feel  sorry  for  him  and  to 
sympathize  with  him. 

For  a  moment  only  he  turned  his  eyes  towards  me 
but  did  not  see  me.  Then  he  withdrew,  and  as  I  could 
not  see  him  any  longer,  I  left  the  attic. 

Next  day  I  heard  terrible  things,  Mangalos  was  alto- 
gether beside  himself.  At  night,  they  said,  he  saw 
ghosts,  sprang  wild  and  terrified  from  his  bed,  aroused 
his  household,  stirred  up  the  neighborhood,  and  acted 
like  mad.  Striding  up  and  down  the  house  he  shouted 
"War  is  coming!"  with  a  wild  voice  that  made  every- 
body shudder.  Paraskeve,  the  wife  of  his  brother, 
Yannes,  was  afraid  he  might  strangle  them  some  night 
and  demanded  of  her  husband  that  they  should  move 
from  the  house.  Yannes  persuaded  her  to  be  patient 
for  a  few  days  by  telling  her  that  it  was  all  the  result 
of  the  prison  and  that  when  Constantine  became  accus- 


116  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

tomed  to  the  house  and  his  freedom  he  would  gradually 
calm  down. 

But  no  improvement  took  place!  Every  day  he  be- 
came worse.  It  was  impossible  for  anyone  to  live  with 
him.  Since  half  of  the  house  belonged  to  him,  Yannes 
had  neither  the  right  nor  the  desire  to  make  him  leave 
it,  and  so,  after  five  days'  troubles  and  vain  hopes,  he 
decided  to  take  his  wife  and  children  and  to  seek  a 
home  elsewhere.  The  madman  was  left  alone  in  the 
deserted  Mangalos  home  to  shout  ''War — is  coming!" 
all  night,  without  bothering  anyone  except  his  nearest 
neighbors. 

I  heard  this  with  considerable  regret  because,  as  I 
have  already  said,  Yannes  Mangalos  had  a  daughter  of 
my  own  age,  who  was  my  friend.  Her  name  was  Mary 
and  she  often  came  to  our  garden  where  we  christened 
my  sister's  dolls  and  built  houses  with  mud.  I  could 
not  find  any  more  pleasure  in  these  plays  but  I  did  like 
to  sit  near  my  little  blonde  friend,  who  was  plump  and 
had  a  light  and  fresh  complexion.  Her  voice,  too,  had 
a  long,  caressing  drawl  that  I  can  hear  even  now.  Espe- 
cially when  she  said  "Give  it  to  me-eee."  And  I  did 
give  it  to  her,  whatever  it  was,  which  made  my  sister 
very  jealous.  But  now,  for  the  madman's  sake,  I  had 
to  lose  my  friend.  Here  was  ample  reason  for  me  to 
hate  him  asi  the  whole  neighborhood  did. 

Still,  I  could  see  no  evil  on  his  face!  I  would  often 
watch  him,  with  his  dreamy  eyes,  as  he  leaned  from  hi« 


MANGALOS  117 

own  little  window,  and  every  time  I  saw  him  I  was  more 
convinced  of  his  likeness  to  St.  John,  and  my  con- 
fidence in  him  grew  stronger  and  stronger.  Perhaps 
I  was  the  only  child  in  our  neighborhood  who  was  not 
afraid  of  the  wild  man.  One  day  I  even  spoke  to  him, 
and  nodded  when  I  thought  he  was  looking  my  way. 
This  made  him  fix  his  eyes  on  me  -with  curiosity  and 
astonishment,  and  some  sign  of  pleasure,  too.  Muster- 
ing more  courage,  and  I  called  out  to  him : 

''Good  day,  Constautine !  How  are  you?  How  are 
you  getting  along?"  ' 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  while  again  and  then  he  asked 
with  a  grimace  that  bore  a  very  faint  resemblance  to  a 
smile : 

*'Is  this  Glegorakis?" 

That  he  should  know  my  name  impressed  me  very 
much,  for  I  knew  he  was  in  prison  when  I  was  born. 

"Yes,"  I  said.    ''How  do  you  know  me?" 

"Well,"  he  answered  with  a  more  pronounced  smile, 
"how  could  I  help  knowing  the  little  master?"  I  had 
forgotten  that  I  was  the  little  master  of  our  neighbor- 
hood. The  compliment  was  just  as  flattering  to  me  as 
my  greeting  was  flattering  to  Constantino,  and  from 
that  moment  we  became  friends. 

My  mother  encountered  me  as  I  was  coming  down 
from  the  attic  with: 

"Were  you  speaking  with  Mangalos,  the  madman? 
Don't  let  me  catch  you  doing  it  again!    Do  you  hear?" 


118  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

I  answered  no  word  to  Mother.  Secretly  I  promised 
myself  to  disobey  her.  On  the  following  days  I  could  not 
catch  Mangalos  at  his  back  window.  It  seemed  that  he 
spent  his  time  shut  in  the  house  or  before  his  front 
window.  Besides,  I  had  heard  someone  say  that  a  newly- 
wed  woman  who  happened  to  be  passing  with  her  hus- 
band around  Mangalos'  corner  almost  fainted  when  she 
saw  the  madman  with  the  wild  hair  hanging  from  the 
lower  window.  I  laughed  at  the  picture,  but  on  the 
same  night  I  had  reason  to  be  frightened  a  little  my- 
self by  the  same  madman. 

I  woke  up  just  before  daybreak  and  in  the  quiet  of 
the  night,  I  heard  strange  voices.  I  soon  knew  it  was 
Mangalos,  who  w^as  up  again  in  mad  excitement  shouting 
his  usual  alarm: 

''War — is  coming!" 

I  heard  his  footsteps  as  he  walked  back  and  forth  in 
his  house.  Now  and  then  their  irregular  sounds  stopped 
and  his  shrill  voice  was  heard  above  everything.  When 
he  had  done  shouting,  he  resumed  his  endless  walk. 
His  phrase  was  pronounced  in  two  different  tones. 
First,  he  uttered  a  wild,  quick,  and  sudden  shout,  like 
a  command: 

"War!" 

Then,  after  a  pause,  followed  a  calmer,  deeper,  and 
lower  sound: 

''Is  coming!" 


MANGALOS  119 

And  immediately  the  walk  was  resumed. 

It  seemed  to  me  the  madman  was  very  near,  almost 
outside  of  the  half-opened  window  of  my  room.  I  was 
80  frightened  that  I  sprang  up  in  my  nightshirt,  ran 
into  my  mother's  room  and  woke  her  up. 

''Listen,  Mother!" 

*'What  is  it?"  she  asked,  frightened  out  of  her  sleep. 

"Mangalos,  the  madman!     Can  you  hear  him?" 

She  listened  silently  for  a  while,  then  she  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  with  a  passing  expression  of  pity,  and 
pretending  to  be  angry,  said  to  me: 

*'You  had  better  hear  him  since  you  like  to  talk  with 
him.  Only  keep  quiet;  you  might  wake  up  the  chil- 
dren." 

I  shut  my  window  and  went  to  bed  again ;  but  I  could 
not  close  my  eyes.  As  I  heard  the  madman's  voice  and 
pictured  in  my  mind  his  dark  and  wild  face,  his  black 
hair  and  beard,  his  ascetic  figure,  and  his  excited  move- 
ments, I  was  mortally  afraid  he  might  at  any  moment 
come  out,  walk  over  the  tiles  of  the  roof  and  appear 
at  the  window,  nodding  to  me  like  a  ghost.  .   .   . 

At  last  he  became  silent  and  quiet  again.  The  dawn 
was  just  breaking  with  a  rosy  streak  when  I  fell  asleep, 
not  before  I  had  promised  myself  a  thousand  times  that 
I  would  never  again  speak  to  him.  I  decided  that  night, 
if  not  to  hate  him,  at  least  to  be  afraid  of  him  as  all 
others  were.  But  it  so  happened  that  three  days  went 
by  before  I  could  see  him  or  hear  his  voice  again.     It 


120  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

seemed  that  the  freed  ex-convict  had  passed  the  critical 
stage  of  his  excitement  .  .  ,  war  and  everything  else. 
I  forgot  all  my  promises  and  regained  my  old  con- 
fidence, so  that  when  I  saw  him  again  one  afternoon 
from  the  window  of  our  attic  I  greeted  him  and  asked 
him  how  he  was. 

"How  could  I  be?"  he  answered  in  bitter  melan- 
choly. *'I  am  thirsty  and  have  no  water  to  drink!" 
And  he  turned  over  his  earthen  water-jar  to  show  it  was 
empty.  I  knew  that  his  brother  sent  him  food  every 
day  and  I  asked  again : 

' '  The  boy  brings  you  food,  doesn  't  he  bring  you  water, 
too?" 

* '  He  does  but  I  drink  it  too  soon.  It  is  so  warm.  Once 
more  not  a  drop  is  left.  How  can  I  get  any  ?  You  know 
I  cannot  go  out  myself." 

"Why?" 

Constantine  condescended  to  answer  a  child's  candor: 

"Because  I  am  still  a  prisoner.  Perhaps  the  men 
have  let  me  free  but  He  who  is  high  up  hasn't  forgiven 
me  yet." 

He  turned  his  head  towards  the  sky  exactly  like  the 
head  I  had  seen  painted  in  the  church.  His  words  and 
his  motion  made  me  shudder — I  remember  that  very 
well.  What  could  a  child  say  to  that?  So  I  turned 
back  to  the  water. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  from  some  of  the  women  neigh- 
bors?:" 


MANGALOS  121 


"Ah,"  he  answered  with  an  expression  of  contempt, 
"one  cannot  expect  anything  from  them!" 

I  understood  his  meaning  well,  and  I  thought  of  him 
in  all  his  loneliness  and  abandonment,  banned  from  all 
society  and  avoided  by  everyone,  like  a  man  stricken 
with  leprosy  or  pestilence.  He  was  thirsty!  One  could 
see  from  his  pale  and  parched  lips  that  he  was  thirsty! 
And  it  was  so  warm  I  Just  then  a  fine  impulse  came  to 
me  and  I  called  out  to  him: 

"Just  wait  a  minute!    I'll  bring  you  some  water!" 

I  ran  down  the  double  stairway,  rushed  into  the 
kitchen,  seized  a  tin  can,  filled  it  with  water  from  our 
jar,  and,  before  anyone  could  see  me  and  hold  me  back, 
I  was  out  on  the  street.  Running  as  fast  as  I  could 
without  spilling  the  water,  I  turned  Mangalos'  corner. 

"Where  are  you  going  with  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Manta- 
lena,  my  first  teacher,  from  her  window. 

"To  Mangalos,"  I  answered  without  stopping,  "he 
asked  me  for  some  water." 

A  good-looking  girl,  who  was  living  in  a  single  story 
house  next  to  Mangalos'  home,  heard  my  words,  looked 
at  me  with  wonder  in  her  black  eyes  and  whispered: 

"He  will  strangle  you!" 

"Without  stopping  I  answered  with  a  nod.  There  was 
no  fear  of  such  a  thing  happening.  Yet  I  was  really 
afraid  and  almost  regretted  my  rashness.  What  if,  at 
the  moment  he  should  stretch  his  hands  to  take  hold 
of  the  tin  can,  he  should  seize  me  by  the  neck? 


122  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

But  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  I  would  be  ashamed 
to  face  the  black  eyes  of  that  girl,  who  would  laugh  at 
me.  Let  anything  happen — an3i:hing!  With  a  heart 
beating  fast,  I  passed  his  door  and  hurried  to  climb  the 
stairs. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  my  steps,  Mangalos  hastened  out 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He  came  down  one  or  two 
steps  and  before  I  was  halfway  up,  tall  as  he  was,  he 
leaned  over  and  grasped  the  can.  As  if  in  a  dream,  I 
waited  for  him.  He  went  in,  emptied  the  water  into  his 
jar,  came  back  and  handed  the  can  back  to  me. 

His  face  now  was  actually  lighted  by  a  cmile.  Oh, 
that  smile!  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  lighted  the  stair- 
way, the  whole  deserted  gloomy  house,  his  black  hair, 
and  even  his  soul  to  its  very  depths — and  my  own  soul! 

* '  I  thank  you ! "  he  said  with  a  loud  voice. 

"Never  mind!"  I  whispered  and  fled  running,  re- 
joicing and  proud. 

The  beautiful  girl  was  still  in  the  same  place.  With- 
out stopping  I  cast  an  arrow  at  her: 

"Did  he  strangle  me  now?" 

"Well,"  answered  my  charming  mocker,  with  a  grace- 
ful nod  of  her  head,  "why  couldn't  you  wait  a  minute?" 

True,  I  had  not  waited  very  long.  All  I  took  time  to 
see  of  Mangalos,  on  whom  for  the  first  time  I  had 
looked  closely,  was  his  smile — and  his  hands.  Probably 
the  fear  for  my  nock  had  made  me  pay  attention  to  the 
latter.    His  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows,  and  his  hands 


MANGALOS  123 

were  thin  and  white.  I  was  surprised  that  his  arms 
were  not  tattooed  with  sea-gorgons  and  double-headed 
eagles  and  daggers,  for  I  knew  this  to  be  the  brave  cus- 
tom of  all  prisoners.  I  had  expected  that  Mangalos, 
who  had  been  fifteen  years  in  prison,  would  have  at  least 
one  gorgon  on  each  hand,  like  Nasos,  the  tavern-owner, 
who  had  not  been  in  prison  more  than  fifteen  months. 

But  it  seems  that  the  murderer  of  Kalligeros  had  not 
lived  in  prison  like  an  ordinary  prisoner.  Later,  when 
he  had  become  accustomed  to  his  new  condition  of  free- 
dom, a  condition  he  was  unable  to  realize  at  first,  when 
the  ghosts  left  him,  and  his  conscience  stopped  bother- 
ing him,  when  he  stopped  screaming  his  terrible  "War 
— is  coming!"  and  had  become  more  peaceful  and  more 
human,  he  actually  went  as  far  as  to  hum  a  song.  Now 
and  then  I  heard  him.  His  song  was  slow,  monotonous, 
low,  and  broken  by  long  pauses  like  the  tune  of  an 
organ  with  many  silent  notes.  One  day  I  listened  to 
catch  the  words.  It  was  not  the  ordinary  prisoner's 
song: 

"The  bonds  of  prison  are  for  men.  ..." 

nor  anything  like  it.  He  was  singing  a  church  hymn! 
The  poor  man  had  "turned  his  heart  to  God."  His 
favorite  reading,  as  he  told  me  later  himself,  was 
"Sinner's  Salvation"  and  the  "Lives  of  the  Saints."  I 
felt  sure,  too,  although  my  information  had  not  come 


124  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

from  him,  that  he  spent  his  mornings  and  evenings  in 
long  prayers  of  worship  and  tears.  He  was  asking  God 
to  free  him  as  men  had  already  freed  him. 

A  child's  instinct  is  never  wrong!  Constantine  Man- 
galos  was  just  what  he  had  appeared  to  me  to  be  from 
the  beginning,  a  repentant  sinner.  This  confinement 
in  his  own  house  and  self-inflicted  prolongation  of  his 
imprisonment,  even  his  abstinence  from  work  was  not 
merely  due  to  his  unfamiliarity  with  people,  freedom 
and  work.  He  was  still  feeling  his  sin  deep  in  his  soul, 
and  was  anxious  to  purge  it  through  self-inflicted  pun- 
ishment. He  lived  like  a  monk  or  an  ascetic.  Gradually 
his  head  began  to  lose  its  likeness  to  St.  John's  head, 
because  he  got  into  the  habit  of  trimming  his  hair  and 
beard  and  even  of  combing  them  at  times.  Slowly  and 
steadily  he  was  becoming  a  man  again. 

A  year  went  by.  The  neighbors  had  now  become 
accustomed  to  the  ex-convict  and  had  ceased  talking  too 
much  about  him.  Besides,  Constantine  was  not  disturb- 
ing or  frightening  them  any  longer.  Even  his  hymn 
singing  was  in  a  very  low  voice.  He  might  spend  his 
whole  life  without  making  his  presence  felt  to  anyone. 
I  could  carry  on  my  conversation  with  him  from  the 
window  of  our  attic  without  provoking  a  scolding  on 
my  mother's  part.  But  his  brother,  Yannes,  was  not  of 
the  same  opinion.  He  believed  this  state  of  affairs  could 
not  go  on  forever  and  insisted  that  Constantine  should 
start  work.    He  had  to  earn  his  living  and  to  pay  back 


MANGALOS  125 

the  debt  his  brother  had  incurred  for  his  sake.  Tannes 
himself  had  a  whole  family  to  support.  Yet,  he  had 
managed  with  borrowing  and  begging  to  pay  all  his 
brother's  expenses  in  prison  and  now,  on  top  of  it  all, 
he  had  been  forced  to  leave  his  own  home  and  to  pay 
rent.    How  could  he  stand  all  this? 

But  Constantine  paid  no  attention  at  first: 

"They  say  I've  got  to  work,"  he  told  me  one  day  as 
we  had  our  usual  talk.  "Am  I  now  in  condition  to 
work?  Look  at  me.  What  work  could  I  do?  Butcher 
again?     No!     Never!" 

The  expression  on  his  face  showed  that  he  utterly 
abhorred  all  killing,  even  of  animals.  Pure  sentimen- 
tality !    It  was  clear,  the  man  was  not  in  his  senses. 

But  one  day  a  strange  revolution  took  place  in  him. 
Lombardos,  his  old  leader,  had  come  to  Zante,  a  minister 
now!  There  were  bells  ringing  and  guns  booming,  and 
applause,  and  cheers !  The  whole  city  was  up.  A  great 
procession  was  formed  and  passed  through  Hammos, 
and  the  shouts  could  be  heard  very  clearly  in  Mangalos' 
home.  I  saw  him  again  from  the  window  in  our  attic. 
He  was  very  pale  and  his  dark  eyes  were  shining  with 
anger.  His  face  reminded  me  of  the  first  daj^s  he  had 
spent  out  of  prison.  I  was  afraid  he  had  turned  mad 
again  for  good. 

' '  Honor  and  glory  for  him ! "  he  said  to  me  with  fury. 
"And  I,  who  have  sacrificed  myself  for  his  love,  what 
good  am  I  getting  now  from  it?    What  good?" 


126  MODERN   GREEK  STORIES 

He  had  no  more  love  for  Lombardos.  He  regretted 
his  blind  fanaticism  and  the  crime  that  had  been  the 
result  of  it.  He  saw  clearly  how  he  had  wronged 
himself  by  having  once  devoted  himself  to  the  worship 
of  a  man  who  had  nothing  in  common  with  him.  Hia 
love  for  Lombardos  had  made  a  god  of  a  man  for  him, 
and  for  his  sake  he  had  forgotten  the  heavenly  God  and 
His  commandments,  he  thought.  So,  on  the  very  next 
day,  he  decided  to  start  work! 

This,  I  believe,  was  not  entirely  unrelated  to  the  shock 
caused  by  the  ovation  given  to  Lombardos,  the  man  who 
was  still  the  people's  idol,  while  Mangalos  had  become 
their  laughing  stock.  At  that  time  I  could  not  explain 
this  sudden  change.  But  now  I  understand  it  perfectly 
and  I  take  this  turn  in  the  martyred  man 's  life  to  be  one 
of  its  most  moving  points. 

Even  a  great  surprise  was  for  me  the  incident  which 
I  will  tell  you  now  before  coming  to  an  end. 

Constantine  Mangalos  was  again  a  butcher,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  a  ' '  meat  dealer. ' '  Since  he  could  not  *  *  shed 
blood"  himself,  he  would  call  on  Klapaftes,  a  young 
man  in  his  neighborhood  who  was  also  a  butcher, 
peddling  his  meat  from  house  to  house,  and  let  him 
slaughter  one  or  two  lambs  for  him  daily.  Then  he 
would  trim  them  himself  in  his  own  yard  and  carry 
them  on  his  shoulders  to  the  end  of  the  street  opposite 
our  house,  where  he  would  sell  them  in  front  of  a  small 
low-class  barber-shop's  entrance,  half  of  which  had  been 


MANGALOS  127 

rented  to  him,  and  there  he  would  sit  waiting  for  cus- 
tomers, especially  from  among  the  peasants  who  fre- 
quented the  barber-shop.  At  any  rate,  he  would  man- 
age to  sell  one  or  two  lambs  each  day.  On  Sundays, 
as  many  as  four. 

But  what  happened  one  day?  Mangalos  had  left  a 
live  lamb  in  his  house  tied  in  his  room  near  the  back 
window.  Klapaftes  was  to  slaughter  it  the  next  day. 
The  lamb,  after  eating  all  the  hay  that  was  laid  on  the 
window-sill,  climbed  upon  it,  and  as  it  tried  to  walk 
it  slipped  and  was  hung  outside  the  window  from  the 
rope  it  was  tied  to,  which  was  rather  long.  His  bleat- 
ings  of  despair  brought  our  servant  to  the  window  of 
our  attic  which  saw  the  misfortune  and  began  cry- 
ing: 

* '  Mangalos '  lamb  is  hung !  It  will  be  strangled !  Poor 
thing!'* 

Sister  and  I  heard  it  and  rushed  to  the  window  of 
our  parlor,  from  which  we  could  see  the  barber-shop 
across  the  street.  Mangalos  was  sitting  there  keeping 
the  flies  away  from  his  goods  with  a  paper  brush.  But 
it  was  rather  far,  and  since  he  could  not  hear  our  voice 
we  made  signs  to  him.  At  last  he  caught  sight  of  us 
and  looked  astonished.  What  could  we  want  of  him? 
He  got  up  and  started  toward  us.  (His  walk  had  now 
become  more  natural  and  the  street  did  not  seem  to  be 
covered  with  burning  coals.)  When  he  had  reached 
the  middle  of  the  street,  he  could  hear  us. 


128  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

* '  Quick !  Your  lamb  is  hanging  from  the  window.  It 
will  be  strangled!" 

"Oh,  bad  luck!"  exclaimed  the  butcher,  and  ran 
towards  his  house. 

I  went  down  to  the  street  and  followed  him,  anxious 
to  see  the  end  of  the  white  lamb  that  was  hanging 
there.    Would  he  be  able  to  save  it? 

"We  arrived  almost  at  the  same  time.  Constantine  un- 
locked his  door  and  went  up  the  stairs  in  big  strides. 
I  followed  behind.  But  we  could  not  hear  the  bleating 
any  longer.  When  Constantine  had  pulled  the  rope  he 
saw  he  had  before  him  what  seemed  like  a  carcass.  He 
acted  like  a  madman. 

"Gone!  Dead!  .  .  .  Bad  luck!  .  .  .  Just  wait. 
It's  breathing  still!  ...  Its  heart  is  beating!  .  .  . 
It  may  come  to  with  rubbing.  .  .  .  Let  me  open  its 
mouth.  ..." 

But  with  all  the  rubbing  and  the  blowing  into  its 
mouth  and  shaking  the  lamb  did  not  show  any  signs  of 
coming  to. 

"It  will  die!  It  will  be  a  dead  lamb!"  said  Con- 
stantine with  despair,  "Two  dollars  gone!  What  shall 
I  do?    What  shall  I  do?" 

"Kill  it!"  I  advised  him. 

*  *  True !    There  is  no  other  way ! ' ' 

He  ran  like  a  crazy  man  to  the  door  and  yelled: 

"Klapafte!    Ho,  Klapafte!" 

No  answer. 


MANGALOS  129 

"He  is  out!"  said  a  woman's  voice  from  the  next 
house. 

''The  devil!" 

He  came  up  again,  a  picture  of  hopelessness.  A 
moment  more  and  the  lamb  would  be  a  carcass  to  be 
thrown  away.    What  could  he  do? 

"Kill  it!"  I  said  again.  "What  are  you  waiting 
for?" 

"Me?    Oh,  my  God!    My  God!" 

He  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  blue  sky  that  could 
be  seen  from  the  open  window,  stretched  out  his  arms, 
sighed  two  or  three  times,  and  put  his  hands  on  his  head. 
Then  he  took  out  his  knife  and  knelt  over  the  dying  lamb. 

It  was  done. 

From  that  day  on  Constantino  Mangalos  killed  and 
sold  his  own  lambs.  The  man  had  come  to  his  senses 
again. 


FORGIVENESS 
By  Iakovos  Polylas 


FORGIVENESS 

*' There  shall  be  neither  temple  without  altar 
nor  human  being  without  mercy.*' 

— Phokion  in  Stoboeus  I,  31. 

Anastases,  an  eighty-year-old  man,  was  found  dead 
at  the  foot  of  Dark  Mountain  about  half  an  hour's  walk 
from  his  village.  He  was  carried  home  by  his  only 
daughter,  Irene,  his  sister,  Helen,  and  his  old  friend, 
Charalampos.  Next  morning,  at  sunrise,  they  buried 
him,  the  priest  of  the  chapel  of  the  Annunciation  accom- 
panying the  dead  man  to  his  grave.  No  other  Christian 
man  attended  him  except  Charalampos,  and  the  old 
attendant  of  the  church.  They  carried  the  coffin,  and  they 
dug  the  grave  in  the  church  according  to  the  practice 
of  that  time  in  the  town  and  country  of  Corfu. 

One  evening,  soon  afterwards,  Charalampos  entered 
the  wine-shop  of  his  neighborhood,  said  "good  evening" 
to  five  or  six  men  seated  over  their  cups,  took  his  seat  in 
a  corner  and  ordered  a  cup  of  wine.  A  lively  conversa- 
tion was  going  on  and  Charalampos  could  not  help 
listening. 

133 


134  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

"Surely,"  said  one,  "Nicholas'  son,  Charidemos,  "will 
now  marry  Irene." 

"He  wooed  her  four  years  ago.  The  girl  was  willing 
but  the  father  refused  to  listen." 

"I  was  just  going  to  say  that  myself.  As  long  as 
Anastases  lived,  the  i]^arriage  could  not  take  place. 
The  old  man  was  afraid  to  have  Charidemos  for  a  son- 
in-law  because  he  had  lent  his  father,  Nicholas,  a  few 
dollars,  and  later  he  piled  high  interest  on  interest, 
brought  law-suits  against  him  and  ended  by  seizing 
Nicholas'  own  vineyard  and  home." 

"You  aren't  right  about  the  home;  that  was  always 
left  in  the  possession  of  Charidemos." 

"True,  but  the  old  man  had  no  good  intentions  about 
it.  Poor  Nicholas  had  to  promise  to  pay  him  a  barrel 
of  oil  yearly  for  that  old  home." 

"Oil?    How  could  he  squeeze  oil  out  of  stones?'* 

"The  old  fox  had  his  nets  well  set.  He  foresaw  that 
Nicholas  would  never  be  able  to  pay  it.  How  could 
he  ?  Had  the  old  sinner  lived  one  year  longer,  Nicholas 
would  have  lost  his  home  and  every  one  of  the  few 
olive  trees  left  him  on  the  hillside.  Three  barrels  were 
already  due  him." 

"Everj'thing  will  be  all  right  now,  with  the  marriage. 
Charidemos  will  get  back  his  own  estate  and  all  of 
Anastases'  property  in  addition  to  the  heiress.  God  is 
just." 

"There  will  be  no  marriage.    How  can  Charidemos 


«1 


FORGIVENESS  135 

wed  the  girl  now  ?  His  father  charged  him  on  his  death- 
bed never  to  marry  her.  His  last  words  were:  'Chari- 
demos,  if  you  ever  marry  Irene,  my  curse  will  be  on 
you!'" 

'But  Charidemos  is  willing  to,  just  the  same." 
'Yes,  but  how  about  his  mother?    She  keeps  remind- 
ing him  of  his  father's  last  words  and  the  poor  boy  is 
broken-hearted   and  hasn't  even  the  courage  to  walk 
near  Irene's  home." 

"Well,  the  old  father  never  knew  the  young  people 
had  an  understanding.  Her  aunt  told  me  they  were 
secretly  engaged.  One  day  Irene  came  down  at  the 
usual  time  to  unsaddle  her  father's  horse  and  water  it, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  Charidemos  jumped  the  fence  and 
with  pretended  force  kissed  her  in  the  presence  of  two 
of  his  friends  as  witnesses." 

"A  kissed  girl  can  never  marry  another  man." 

"Isn't  this  God's  mystery?  The  old  miser,  when  he 
lived,  ruined  other  people's  homes;  now,  when  he  is 
dead,  he  is  ruining  his  own." 

**A  bad  man  he  was." 

"Do  you  remember  year  before  last  when  he  was 
collecting  his  interest,  how  he  grinned  with  his  black 
toothless  gums,  and  he  complained  that  our  crops  were 
weevilly?" 

"People's  misfortunes  were  his  joys.  He  simply 
longed  to  see  poor  men  starve  so  that  they  might  come 
to  him  and  beg  him  for  a  loan." 


136  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 


II 


'Andronieos — God  rest  his  soul — treated  him  right." 

"Yes,  I  remember;  the  covetous  old  man  brought  a 
suit  against  Andronieos  for  a  debt  he  had  already  paid. 
The  poor  man  had  neither  a  written  receipt  nor  wit- 
nesses, and  before  the  judge  Anastases,  the  old  scoun- 
drel, laid  his  dirty  hand  on  the  Holy  Bible  and  took 
a  false  oath." 

**I  was  just  going  to  say  that.  Then,  when  he  threat- 
ened to  put  the  man  in  jail  for  a  paid  debt,  Andronieos 
was  so  enraged  that  he  put  a  pullet  in  him." 

**What  good  did  that  do?  They  say  the  bullet  cured 
the  old  man  instead  of  killing  him." 

"Yes,  no  one  could  locate  the  bullet,  but  the  doctors 
said  that  it  had  helped  in  healing  an  inner  wound 
which  often  made  him  spit  blood.  Poor  Andronieos 
was  sentenced  for  life  and  died  an  unjust  death  after 
two  years  in  prison.  But  the  old  robber,  who  was  bom 
three  days  before  the  devil,  lived  too  well  for  another 
twenty  years.  Thou  art  great,  0  Lord,  and  marvelous 
are  Thy  works!  Surely  God  kept  him  in  the  world  to 
torment  good  Christians." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

Charalampos  sat  sipping  his  wine  and  smoking  his 
pipe.  He  was  not  sure  whether  he  should  leave  the 
place  or  take  part  in  the  conversation,  when  the  oldest 
man  in  the  company,  who  had  been  silent  until  then, 
spoke  to  him. 

' '  Well,  Charalampos,  haven 't  you  anything  to  tell  us  ? " 


FORGIVENESS  137 

"I  have  been  listening  all  the  time,"  answered  Chara- 
lampos,  "and  I  said  to  myself  that  you  don't  talk  like 
good  Christians  on  this  Sabbath  eve.  Tomorrow  we  will 
hear  the  gospel,  and  the  word  of  truth." 

' '  Do  you  think,  then,  we  have  been  telling  lies  ? ' ' 

"I  doubt  whether  everything  you  said  was  true.  I 
only  want  to  say  that  even  if  Anastases  had  been  as 
crooked  as  you  picture  him,  you  should  not  talk  so 
cruelly  about  him  just  after  his  death.  If  he  was  wrong 
in  treating  living  men  unjustly,  you,  too,  are  wrong 
in  speaking  ill  of  a  dead  man  who  cannot  answer  you 
from  where  he  is  now." 

"It  wasn't  passion  that  made  us  talk  that  way.  None 
of  us  here  has  been  his  victim.  We  didn't  need  his  help. 
But  we  can't  help  sympathizing  with  the  poor  men  he 
robbed.     He  surely  was  bloodthirsty." 

"There  is  something  in  Charalampos'  stand,"  said  the 
oldest  of  the  company  again,  "Anastases  saved  him  from 
death  once." 

"That  was  the  only  good  act  in  all  his  life." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Charalampos,  encouraged  a  little 
by  this  turn,  "you  see  for  yourselves.  The  man  was 
not  so  bad.  There  was  some  goodness  left  in  him,  just 
as  any  good  man  can't  help  being  a  little  bad,  once  in 
a  while.  Perhaps  God  created  him  better.  Do  you 
know  how  he  was  made  so  heartless?  You,  young  men, 
don't  know  his  story,  but  I  can  tell  you." 

"Well,  let  us  hear  it  while  we  wait." 


138  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

"This  poor  Anastases  was  just  four  years  old  when 
he  lost  his  father,  and  two  or  three  years  after  that  he 
lost  his  mother,  too.  His  trustee,  a  distant  uncle,  took 
the  orphan  to  his  home  and  treated  him  worse  than  a 
bad  step-father.  For  the  least  of  causes  he  would  beat 
him  black  and  blue." 

' '  I  suppose  he  was  a  crook  before  he  was  born. ' ' 
' '  The  trustee  was  unscrupulous  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  strip  his  nephew  of  his  property.    He  began  by  steal- 
ing everything  that  could  be   found  in  the   orphan's 
home.    As  such  trifles  as  old  troughs  and  mouldy  bar- 
rels could  not  satisfy  him  very  well,  he  adopted  an- 
other  scheme.     He    abolished    all   the    old    landmarks 
of  the  estate  left  in   his  trust,   changed  the   position 
of   the   original    fence    that   separated   his   land   from 
his   nephew's,    and   built   a   new   dividing   line   which 
left  his  ward  only  a  few  strips  of  land  on  the  edges. 
In  other  words,  he  disinherited  him  and  left  him  desti- 
tute." 
"Crookedness  runs  in  the  family,  it  seems." 
"At  that  time  the  English  needed  men  to  build  those 
famous  castles  of  theirs  on  the  island  of  Vidos.     They 
paid  them  well  and  so  they  attracted  a  number  of  or- 
phans from  our  village.     Anastases  was  among  them. 
After  two  years  of  hard  work  he  came  back  with  a  little 
money. ' ' 

"He  had  his  first  earnings  from  foreigners." 

**No,  from  his  own  labor.    With  this  money  he  built 


FORGIVENESS  139 

his  first  house,  which  is  now  an  abandoned  ruin.  He 
had  learned  to  be  a  mason  during  the  two  years.  He 
furnished  his  home  and  married  an  orphan  girl  for  a 
wife,  without  any  dowry.  He  had  two  children,  Irene, 
who  still  lives,  and  my  own  little  godson,  Soteres.  Then 
his  wife  died  and  he  was  left  alone  to  bring  up  two 
children,  the  boy  four  years  old,  the  girl,  five.  He  had 
to  live  by  himself." 

"Why  didn't  he  marry  another  wife?" 
"I  urged  him  to.  But  he  said  he  didn't  want  any 
step-mother  for  his  children.  He  would  rather  suffer 
than  lose  them.  He  was  a  brave  man.  I  remember  still 
how  at  summer  he  would  start  out  two  hours  before 
daybreak.  He  would  place  his  children,  two  little  angels, 
in  a  bag  with  two  or  three  pounds  of  plain  foodstuff, 
hang  a  flask  of  wine  from  his  neck,  take  his  pick  in  one 
hand  and  the  bag  over  his  shoulder  with  the  other,  and 
walk  for  a  whole  hour  to  go  to  the  great  woods  near 
the  main  village.  Here  he  sweated  the  whole  day  in 
the  sun,  cutting  down  wood  from  mastick-bushes,  holm- 
oaks,  and  mountain-strawberry  trees  to  make  charcoal. 
"When  he  had  piled  up  enough  wood  to  start  his  kiln, 
he  would  stay  up  all  night  and  keep  his  children  out 
there,  too.  Sometimes  he  would  leave  half -burned  wood 
or  finished  charcoal  in  the  pit,  and  yet  nobody  would 
touch  them  out  of  pity  for  him.  Would  you  believe  it  T ' 
"He  was  very  prompt  in  showing  pity  to  others  in 
return,  wasn't  he?" 


140  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

"He  spent  five  years  of  such  labor  just  to  keep  him- 
self and  his  children  alive." 

"Why  didn't  he  go  to  work  for  others  as  we  have 
done?" 

"In  those  days,  even  counting  the  low  cost  of  living, 
wages  were  too  low,  and  he  was  too  proud  to  work  for 
others.  He  Avas  a  good,  honest,  hard-working  man  with 
a  high  spirit  who  could  not  stand  the  whims  of  an  em- 
ployer. Besides,  he  did  not  want  to  part  with  his  chil- 
dren or  to  trust  them  to  the  care  of  any  relatives.  After 
what  he  had  suffered  at  his  uncle's  hands  he  had  no 
faith  in  any  kinsman." 

"How  did  he  become  a  rich  man  after  such  misery?" 

"I  never  heard  of  a  man  getting  rich  from  charcoal." 

"They  say  he  found  treasure  in  the  ruins  of  the  old 
castle  near  Gardiki.  The  spirit  Moros  showed  him  the 
place. '  * 

"Foolish  gossip,"  said  Charalampos.  "His  treasure 
was  his  labor  and  his  economy.  Besides,  God  had  made 
him  very  strong.  He  could  work  eighteen  hours  a  day. 
In  winter  he  would  work  nights,  too.  He  could  weave 
the  best  baskets  and  make  the  best  wearing  bags,  though 
he  had  never  been  in  a  factory.  Then  he  thought  of 
another  plan.  In  summer,  he  would  sell  just  enough 
charcoal  to  provide  for  the  absolute  necessities  of  him- 
self and  his  children.  The  greater  part  he  would  store 
in  his  house  to  sell  in  winter  when  coal  sold  much  higher. 
By  these  methods  he  saved  considerable  money." 


FORGIVENESS  141 


tti 


'That  doesn't  moke  niiy  difference.  He  may  have 
come  honestly  by  it  but  he  used  it  dishonestly  when  he 
mined  so  many  poor  men  with  it." 

"I  told  him  many  times  so  much  usury  on  his  loans 
was  a  sin  and  made  people  hate  him.  But  he  had  his 
own  opinion.  He  would  say  to  me  'Charalampos,  I  have 
known  want  of  food  and  of  clothes  ever  since  my  early 
years.  I  cannot  forget  it.  My  childhood  was  spent  in 
misery.  I  don't  want  to  go  through  it  again  in  my  old 
age.  I  want  to  leave  something  for  my  Irene. '  He  had 
lost  his  son  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old." 

"God's  sword!" 

"He  would  tell  me,  'Is  it  a  sin  to  give  ten  in  order 
to  take  twenty?  I  don't  believe  it!  My  own  ten  cost 
me  not  only  twenty  but  a  hundred!  They  are  mixed 
with  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  with  the  blood  of  my  heart. 
They  are  not  like  the  ready  money  found  by  others  in 
their  fathers'  coffers.  My  father  might  have  had  some- 
thing but  my  uncle  did  not  leave  me  even  the  ashes  of 
it.'  " 

"That  was  pretty  good  advice  from  the  devil!  Is 
that  how  he  confessed  to  his  priest?" 

"You  can't  say  that.  Who  ever  saw  him  take  the 
sacrament  ? ' ' 

"He  surely  knew  the  Holy  Communion  would  be- 
come a  fire  in  his  heart  to  burn  him. ' ' 

"Let  me  get  through,"  Charalampos  continued.  "I 
am  only  trying  to  give  you  his  own  words.     I  am  not 


142  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

trying  to  prove  him  right.  Another  thing  he  said  was 
this :  *I  am  not  trying  to  force  a  loan  on  anybody.  They 
come  of  themselves!  Idle  men  and  spendthrifts,  who 
waste  what  they  have  in  dissipation,  come  to  me  to  bor- 
row money.  If  I  don 't  give  it  to  them,  they  will  borrow 
it  from  a  Jew.  Why  isn't  it  better  for  a  Christian 
to  make  a  profit  out  of  it?*  This  reminds  me  of  some- 
thing that  happened  in  those  hard  days  when  we  all 
ate  just  boiled  vegetables  without  a  drop  of  oil  or 
vinegar.  Old  Nicholas,  the  father  of  Charidemos,  just 
before  he  married  Agatha,  borrowed  fifty  dollars  from 
Anastases  for  his  wedding  expenses.  They  ate  and 
drank  and  sang  and  danced  for  fifteen  days  and  fifteen 
nights  with  all  their  friends  and  kin.  But  after  two 
years  'the  comb  came  to  a  knot.'  For  this  loan,  Anas- 
tases dispossessed  him  of  his  vineyard  and  home  just 
as  you  said  a  little  while  ago.  He  had  always  to  do 
with  some  prodigal  or  other.  Sometimes  he  would  even 
give  a  loan  without  interest  to  a  working  man  who  hap- 
pened to  fall  sick. ' ' 
"Well,  well!  Pity  such  men  can't  live  forever!" 
"If  you  keep  it  up  you  will  make  him  a  saint  yet!" 
"That  isn't  my  point.  I  wanted  to  let  you  know 
that  the  man  had  suffered  wrong  himself  and  had  gone 
through  many  hardships.  That  is  how,  I  believe,  his 
heart  was  hardened.  It  is  true,  he  has  done  harm  to  a 
great  many;  but  why  not  let  the  Almighty  judge 
him?" 


FORGIVENESS  143 

"He  has  judged  him,  it  seems,"  said  the  oldest  man 
in  the  company. 

"Seems — what?"  asked  Charalampos. 

"He  appeared  right  after  the  day  of  his  burial,  in  the 
night." 

"This  is  the  harvest  month  and  the  moon  is  full." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Somebody  is  tired  guarding  his  figs  at  night  and 
spread  this  rumor  to  scare  thieves  away." 

"What  will  not  Charalampos  invent  out  of  love  for 
his  friend!" 

"Yet  I  bet  Charalampos  has  seen  him  .  He  is  a  man 
of  light  shadow.*  Haven't  you  told  us  you  have  often 
met  with  ghosts?  You  are  rather  given  to  psychic 
things,  and  you  like  to  wander  around  nights  like  a 
night-owl. ' ' 

"It  is  true  I  have  seen  them  often  and  I  am  not 
afraid.  They  are  airy  things  that  can't  touch  you.  One 
time,  a  cold  clear  night  in  January  at  the  foot  of  Kakava 
Cliff,  just  as  I  was  coming  down  to  cross  the  ditch,  I 
saw  before  me  a  big  black  dog  with  eyes  like  coals  afire 
and  a  tail  two  cubits  long.  I  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
three  times.  On  the  third  it  disappeared  and  I  jumped 
over  the  ditch  without  any  trouble.  Another  time  I  was 
keeping  watch  over  my  grapes  in  my  vineyard  opposite 
the  hill  of  St.  Athanases.  The  Orion  showed  it  was  past 
midnight.     There  I  saw  a  great  stage  drawn  by  two 

*  Said  of  a  man  who  is  given  to  seeing  supernatural  apparitions. 


144  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

great  white  horses  loaded  with  passengers  and  driven 
by  an  old  man.    It  went  uphill  at  full  speed." 

' '  What  of  it  ?  Stages  may  pass  that  way  any  time  of 
day  or  night." 

"True,  but  although  it  went  at  full  speed,  you  could 
hear  neither  wheels  rattling  nor  horse-shoes  clinking. 
Not  a  single  sound !  The  whole  way  seemed  to  be  strewn 
with  loose  cotton.  It  was  Charon  passing  that  way  with 
the  souls  he  had  taken  with  him." 

"Then  you  would  make  us  believe  there  are  no  vam- 
pires!" 

"I  don't  believe  in  vampires,  because  I  never  have 
seen  them  in  my  life  of  sixty  years.  A  good  many 
men  worse  than  Anastases  have  died  without  repent- 
ing ;  some  of  them  had  even  robbed  churches,  a  crime  not 
unusual  in  those  days.  I  say  a  man  can't  leave  his 
grave  with  his  whole  body  before  the  Day  of  the  Last 
Judgment,  when  the  Lord  will  come  'to  judge  the  living 
and  the  dead.'  " 

"That  may  be  true;  but  black  souls  like  his  are  con- 
demned immediately  and  God  gives  a  sign  of  His  judg- 
ment." 

' '  The  Almighty  never  reveals  His  judgment.  It  is  His 
secret. ' ' 

"No  priest  has  ever  told  us  that." 

"I  am  older  than  any  one  of  you,"  said  the  oldest 
of  the  company.  "Some  learned  man  told  me  once  that 
he  had  read  in  a  book  of  a  criminal  whose  soul  on  his 


FORGIVENESS  145 

deathbed  was  taken  by  one  devil  while  another  crept 
into  his  body ;  and  so,  while  his  soul  burned  in  hell,  his 
body  was  held  together  by  the  unclean  spirit  and  re- 
mained years  among  the  living  to  torment  them." 

* '  Do  you  remember  of  late  how  Anastases  looked  after 
a  sickness?  One  might  think  he  had  no  blood  in  his 
face  at  all." 

"Right!  And  do  you  remember  how  glassy  his  eyes 
were  ?  " 

Charalampos  rose,  lighted  his  pipe  for  the  third  time 
and  turned  to  the  shop-keeper : 

"Let  us  all  have  a  drink  of  wine.  My  boys,  believe 
all  you  want;  only  don't  speak  about  this  to  anyone 
else,  not  for  the  dead  man's  sake  but  for  his  daughter's. 
She  might  die  of  terror." 

"We  will  do  as  you  wish.  But  it  is  common  talk 
already. " 

They  drank  their  last  glass  and  went  out  together 
as  if  each  was  afraid  to  go  out  alone.  Charalampos 
saw  everyone  home  and  then  turned  towards  his  own 
neighborhood.  But  suddenly  he  stopped.  On  second 
thought,  he  felt  that  he  did  not  care  to  go  home  yet. 

"I  sha'n't  be  able  to  close  my  eyes  tonight,  anyway," 
he  thought,  and  took  the  path  toward  the  ravine  that 
runs  alongside  of  the  village. 

The  ravine  was  much  like  a  funnel  with  sides  spread 
out  and  the  road  cutting  it  in  two.  One  might  think 
the  earth  had  been  split  here  by  an  earthquake,  and 


146  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

that  the  road  had  been  opened  by  a  thunderbolt.  In 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine  was  a  small  but  rushing  tor- 
rent, which  swelled  with  the  gathering  of  the  waters 
from  both  slopes  in  the  winter,  and  became  almost  dry 
in  the  spring,  leaving  just  enough  water  shining 
between  the  pebbles  of  the  bottom  to  keep  the  wild 
flowers  of  the  ravine  alive.  The  place  never  knew  sun- 
rise or  sunset  and  only  at  noon  could  it  be  reached  by 
the  sun  which  flooded  the  thick  grove  of  olive  trees 
with  its  light. 

But  there  was  something  more  remarkable  still  about 
the  place.  On  one  side  it  was  wild  and  thickly  wooded, 
stretching  up  to  a  ridge  of  great  rocks  beaten  by  the 
sun  and  cracked  by  the  winds,  like  petrified  skulls  of 
giants.  In  spots  one  could  see  great  caves  whose  open- 
ings were  partly  shaded  by  wild  fig-trees.  The  natives 
pointed  also  to  an  opening  which  they  thought  bottom- 
less, reaching  down  to  the  underworld  whence  the  moun- 
tain is  called  Dark.  If  you  should  throw  a  stone  into  that 
cavern  you  would  never  hear  it  strike  bottom.  Those 
caves,  in  the  old  times,  were  the  hiding  places  of 
criminals  fleeing  from  the  hands  of  justice  and  since 
many  have  died  in  them  of  hunger  and  thirst,  people 
believed  that  their  ghosts  haunted  the  mountain.  No 
one  dared  set  foot  on  it  in  the  night  for  fear  of  the  evil 
spirits. 

The  opposite  side  was  tame  and  spotted  with  green 
vineyards,  while  on  one  distinct  hilltop   there  was  a 


FORGIVENESS  147 

little  chapel  called  St.  Athanase,  the  Ascetic,  because  it 
was  said,  a  sainted  ascetic  lived  and  died  there.  So, 
only  a  stride  took  one  from  a  wilderness  inhabited  by 
the  devil  and  damned  men  to  a  place  blessed  by  God's 
church  and  a  saint's  memory.  One's  imagination  was 
caught  by  this  symbolic  contrast. 

Charalampos  mechanically  followed  the  road  dimly 
lighted  by  the  moon  which  had  now  reached  the  zenith. 
His  mind  was  absorbed  in  thought  and  when  he  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine  and  started  going  uphill  he 
forgot  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  he  used  to  when- 
ever he  faced  a  chapel.  This  time  he  had  not  taken 
notice  of  the  little  white  country  temple  which  was 
visible  on  the  opposite  side.  The  uphill  path  ended  with 
a  level  stretch  of  considerable  length,  leading  through 
groves  of  olive  trees  to  a  well-lighted  clearing.  The  soft 
light  of  the  moon  and  the  pure  air  of  the  open  caused 
him  to  emerge  for  a  moment  from  his  thoughts  to  look 
about  him  for  a  place  to  rest.  He  sat  down  and  plunged 
into  meditation,  anxious  to  clear  from  his  mind  the 
darkness  that  had  been  gathering  there  since  he  had  been 
left  alone  by  his  companions. 

At  this  spot  the  one  slope  came  to  a  sudden  end  and 
the  ground  spread  out  evenly.  On  the  sides  of  the 
Dark  Mountain  an  abrupt  edge  was  formed  so  that  the 
narrow  road  bending  in  a  horse-shoe  curve  had  the 
mountain  over  it  and  looked  on  a  tremendous  precipice 
below,  at  the  bottom  of  which  flowed  another  torrent. 


148  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

From  this  fenceless  balcony  one  could  see  the  greater 
valley  of  that  district  with  the  hills  that  bordered  on 
it,  while  farther  out  in  the  distance  the  mountains  and 
sea  of  Epirus  mingled  with  the  main,  dividing  the  island 
of  Corfu  from  Italy.  The  two  seas  spread  silver  white 
under  the  light  of  the  moon.  The  night  was  still.  There 
was  no  wind  stirring,  and  nothing  marred  the  summer 
quiet  of  the  hour  but  the  distant  barking  of  the  dogs 
that  watched  over  the  flocks,  and  the  clanking  of  the 
bells  of  sheep  as  they  happened  to  move  in  their  folds. 
At  intervals,  too,  from  the  side  of  the  Dark  Mountain 
the  howl  of  the  jackal  resounded  in  the  valley,  break- 
ing the  flow  of  silence  with  its  weird  echo  and,  mingled 
with  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the  tinkling  of  bells,  it 
struck  the  ear  just  as  the  quivering  flash  of  lightning 
in  a  dark  night  strikes  the  eye. 

Charalampos  paid  little  attention  to  the  scenery  and 
the  sounds  about  him.  He  was  concerned  with  the  story 
that  his  friend  Anastases  had  turned  into  a  vampire- 
which  was  bound  to  undo  all  the  effort  he  had  made 
to  persuade  Charidemos'  mother  to  give  her  consent  to 
her  son's  marriage  with  the  dead  man's  daughter.  He 
owed  his  life  to  Anastases  and  was  eager  to  save  his 
daughter  from  misfortune.  Was  his  dead  friend  really 
a  vampire  or  did  the  story  spring  from  the  hatred 
people  felt  toward  him?  He  would  like  to  know  the 
truth  even  if  he  had  to  face  the  vampire  himself. 

At  that  instant  he  raised  his  eyes  and  suddenly  saw 


FOKGIVENESS  149 

Anastases  walking  slowly  past  the  place  where  he  had 
been  found  dead.  He  was  there  with  his  whole  body, 
just  as  Charalampos  himself  had  laid  him  in  his  grave. 
He  wore  his  black  cap  and  had  his  long  beard  which 
he  had  kept  as  a  sign  of  mourning  since  his  son's  death. 
Charalampos  thought  first  of  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross  and  calling  upon  the  Lord  to  remember  him  as 
he  had  always  done  in  the  past  on  meeting  with  ghosts, 
but  he  held  his  hand  and  his  tongue  this  time.  He  did 
not  wish  to  dismiss  Anastases  before  he  had  spoken  to 
him. 

"Is  that  you,  Anastases?"  he  asked. 

But  the  ghost  uttered  a  pitiful  howl  like  a  dog's  and 
disappeared  into  a  grove  of  cypress  trees.  Charalampos 
fell  senseless  on  the  ground. 

Next  morning  there  was  great  excitement  in  the  vil- 
lage. Some  shepherds,  passing  through  the  clearing 
with  their  flocks,  had  found  Charalampos  just  able  to 
stand  on  his  feet  and  had  helped  him  to  go  home.  Until 
then  nobody  had  claimed  to  have  seen  the  dead  man,  but 
the  accident  to  Charalampos  was  clear  proof  to  all  that 
he  had  surely  met  with  the  vampire  the  night  before, 
at  the  foot  of  Dark  Mountain. 

At  noon,  when  Irene  went  with  her  pitcher  to  the 
village  well,  the  other  women  shrank  away  from  her 
with  fear,  and  grouped  themselves  apart  from  her,  whis- 
pering to  each  other  with  mystified  looks.    The  poor  girl 


150  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

grew  pale  with  a  feeling  of  guilt  and  went  back  home 
with  trembling  knees.  Just  as  she  was  crossing  her 
threshold  a  child  pointed  at  her  and  said  to  another: 

"Look  at  her!  Her  father  walks  from  his  grave  at 
night." 

The  rumor  had  spread  to  all  the  neighborhood  and  no 
one  from  the  village  dared  pass  the  dead  man's  house 
any  longer.  The  two  women  were  absolutely  deserted, 
and  from  their  silent  home,  soon  after  sunset,  they  would 
hear  the  neighbors  bar  and  lock  their  doors  and  win- 
dows. No  one  visited  them,  not  even  their  old  friend 
Charalampos,  who  was  still  in  bed,  and  had  called  in 
his  confessor. 

Something  worse  happened.  After  Anastases'  burial, 
his  sister  went  upstairs  where  Anastases  kept  his  bed 
and  his  safe,  and  after  taking  out  enough  money  to  last 
for  forty  days  after  his  death,  she  locked  up  the  trap- 
door that  led  to  the  upper  floor  and  went  downstairs 
again.  The  two  women  were  sleeping  on  the  lower  floor, 
for  some  time  nothing  disturbed  them,  but  early  one 
night,  soon  after  Charalampos'  accident,  Irene  was 
startled  from  her  sleep  and  woke  up  her  aunt. 

"What  is  happening  upstairs?"  she  asked. 

"Keep  quiet,  my  child,"  answered  the  old  woman, 
"it  must  be  a  mouse  rummaging  for  food." 

"What  mouse?  I  hear  a  noise  like  the  clanking  of 
chains  dragging  on  the  floor.  Can't  you  hear  someone 
trying  to  open  the  trap-door?" 


FORGIVENESS  151 

"Make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  my  child,  and  go  to 
sleep." 

On  the  thirty-sixth  day  after  Anastases'  death,  Chara- 
lampos  was  at  last  able  to  visit  his  friend's  home. 

''"We  are  in  a  poor  state,  Charalampos,"  complained 
the  old  woman.  "We  don't  dare  leave  the  house  any 
longer.  "We  are  thought  of  as  women  of  lost  souls.  We 
have  to  drink  the  brackish  water  of  our  own  well.  And 
the  fearful  nights  we  spend !  The  blessed  man  will  not 
let  us  rest  at  all.  Do  me  the  favor  of  going  to  Priest 
Euthymios,  and  tell  him  to  hold  a  memorial  service  for 
him  this  Saturday." 

"You  are  a  second  father  to  me,  Charalampos,"  added 
the  daughter.  "But  you  see  life  is  not  meant  for  me, 
after  this  I  have  no  hope  that  Charidemos  will  take  me." 

"Charidemos  hasn't  changed  his  mind,"  said  Chara- 
lampos. 

"I  believe  you.  He  is  a  man  of  his  word.  But  how 
can  I  join  his  home  when  his  mother  does  not  want  me 
and  keeps  cursing  my  father's  memory?  You  know 
how  it  is.  Perhaps  God  meant  everything  for  the  best. 
My  father  was  covetous,  as  people  say,  and  I  may  not 
enjoy  ill-gotten  goods.  I  am  thinking  of  leaving  every- 
thing to  you  to  give  in  alms.  I  will  go  to  a  convent 
to  atone  for  his  tormented  soul.  It  was  wrong  for  me 
to  become  engaged  to  Charidemos  against  my  father's 
will,  and  now  I  pay  for  it. ' ' 


152  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

"Your  plan  is  pious,"  said  Charalampos,  "but  let  a 
year  go  by  before  you  make  up  your  mind.     If  a  man 
wants  to  be  a  hermit  lie  must  forget  the  world  first;  I 
don't  believe  you  will  ever  forget  Charidemos." 
"If  I  can't  forget  him,  I  shall  have  to  die." 
Charalampos  made  a  great  effort  to  check  his  tears. 
"I  must  go,"  he  said,  "to  arrange  for  the  service." 
"Let  it  be  early,  before  sunrise,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"without  the  sound  of  any  bell.    We  will  go  to  church 
before  daybreak  and  we  will  come  home  after  dark." 
"We'll  do  what  is  best,"  said  Charalampos. 

Charalampos  went  first  to  ask  the  advice  of  the  pastor 
of  St.  John's,  who  was  his  confessor. 

"I  know  why  you  come  to  me,  Charalampos,"  said  the 
old  priest  as  soon  as  he  saw  him.  "Since  the  day  you 
invited  me  to  your  house  you  have  been  thinking  about 
nothing  else  but  how  to  help  those  poor  women." 

"Yes.  I  have  heard  that  in  the  old  days  they  had 
some  way  of  giving  peace  to  the  dead." 

"I  know  it.  This  time  we  have  to  put  the  people  of 
the  village  in  a  forgiving  mood  first." 

"Especially  Charidemos'  mother.  The  poor  boy,  as 
I  have  heard,  is  planning  to  leave  the  country  forever. 
Do  what  you  may  think  best,  with  God's  help.  My  mind 
is  at  a  loss  ever  since  my  last  blow." 

"Don't  mind  that — I  have  told  you  your  sin  has  been 
forgiven.    In  your  desire  to  help  your  friend's  daughter 


FORGIVENESS  153 

you  forget  for  a  moment  that  God  has  His  own  will  and 
cannot  brook  a  man's  interference.  Let  ns  have  faith 
and  hope  in  Him.  Saturday  is  the  fortieth  day  after 
the  poor  man's  death.  Come  to  the  chapel  of  the  An- 
nunciation at  the  usual  hour  and  bring  the  two  women 
with  you." 

**The  women  want  the  service  to  be  held  in  secret." 

**  These  things  must  not  be  held  in  secret.  Tell  them 
there  is  nothing  to  fear, ' ' 

The  pastor  of  St.  John,  ninety  years  of  age  and 
greatly  respected,  both  in  his  own  village  and  in  the 
surrounding  districts,  was  a  keen  and  far-sighted  man. 
He  had  foreseen  so  many  things  that  people  thought 
him  a  prophet;  and  he  had  coped  with  so  many  diffi- 
cult situations  that  people  had  come  to  consider  him  en- 
dowed by  God  with  miraculous  grace.  During  the  two 
intervening  days  the  old  hermit  called  to  his  cell  many 
of  the  villagers,  as  well  as  the  mother  of  Charidemos. 
These  actions  mystified  the  people ;  they  gathered  outside 
the  old  man's  hut  and  inquired  of  each  one  as  he  came 
out  what  the  hermit  wanted.  No  one  revealed  the 
secret.  On  Friday  evening  the  bells  of  the  chapel  of 
the  Annunciation  sounded  mournfully,  and  the  news 
spread  everywhere  that  on  Saturday  morning  a  me- 
morial service  would  be  held  for  the  repose  of  the  soul 
of  Anastases. 

In  the  morning,  Charalampos,  with  the  two  women, 
went  to  church  and  found  it  full.    The  old  hermit,  with 


154  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

the  other  tvro  priests  of  the  village,  celebrated  the 
funeral  service.  After  the  prayers  for  the  departed, 
holy  water  was  consecrated.  Then  the  old  hermit,  plant- 
ing the  Holy  Cross  upon  the  dead  man's  grave,  spoke 
in  a  voice  that  could  be  heard  by  those  in  the  church, 
as  well  as  by  all  standing  outside  in  the  churchyard. 

**This  sinner — we  are  all  sinners — cannot  find  rest 
until  you  have  forgiven  him.  From  where  he  now  is, 
he  implores  your  forgiveness." 

With  these  words  he  poured  the  Holy  Water  into  the 
hole  made  by  the  end  of  the  cross.  As  soon  as  the  ground 
absorbed  it,  an  earthquake  shook  the  walls  of  the  church, 
and  all  those  present,  as  well  as  the  priests,  cried: 

"Oh,  Lord!  let  thy  servant  be  at  rest!" 

Then  the  old  priest  called  to  him  Irene,  Charidemos, 
and  his  mother,  and  placing  the  bride's  hand  in  that  of 
the  bridegroom  said  to  the  mother: 

* '  Give  your  blessing  to  these  two  orphans.  The  Omni- 
potent wills  it." 


ANGELICA 

By  Aegykes  Eftaliote* 


ANGELICA 

There  was  great  excitement  in  the  village  when  An- 
gelica made  her  first  appearance.  The  people  who  were 
used  to  the  timid  and  restrained  ways  of  all  village  girls 
saw  suddenly  one  who  descended  among  them  like  a 
goddess.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  as  white  as  if  the 
sun  had  never  seen  her;  then  she  was  pleasant  and 
cheerful  and  lively  and  she  had  beautiful  white  teeth 
that  drove  anyone  crazy  when  she  smiled.  Third,  she 
never  wore  peasant  costumes,  her  dresses  were  all  from 
the  city.  She  was  the  kind  you  might  look  at  and  never 
get  tired  of  looking. 

Angelica  started  a  revolution  in  the  village.  The 
good  village  folks  had  not  been  anticipating  such  a 
trouble  when  they  brought  her  there.  Their  purpose 
was  innocent.  All  they  needed  was  a  good  schoolmistress 
who  would  teach  their  girls  how  to  read  and  write;  so 
they  wrote  about  it  to  the  city,  and  after  a  little  while 
they  received  Angelica  as  a  reply. 

They  had  not  built  a  schoolhouse  yet.  They  had  to 
rent  an  ordinary  house  in  which  Angelica  immediately 
proceeded  to  civilize  the  girls  of  the  village.  So  far  so 
good.    The  girls  were  learning  that  bread  could  not  be 

157 


158  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

eaten  in  a  book  unless  it  took  the  ancient  name,  and 
when  they  left  off  the  books  they  began  their  handi- 
work. In  the  evening,  when  they  went  home,  one  would 
show  her  father  the  hemming  she  had  made,  another  a 
pair  of  fancy  slippers,  and  another  an  embroidered 
tobacco-pouch.  The  fathers  would  look  on  these  achieve- 
ments with  satisfaction  and  were  proud  that  their 
daughters  were  at  last  learning  city  ways. 

But  this  was  not  the  end  of  the  matter.  The  big  girls, 
who  could  no  longer  go  to  school  because  of  their  age, 
did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  left  behind.  Why  should 
their  j^ounger  sisters  alone  get  all  the  merits  and  graces? 
So  they  proceeded  to  besiege  Angelica  and  would  not  let 
her  alone.  There  was  no  evening  party  where  Angelica 
was  not  the  central  figure.  She  would  tell  them  stories, 
explain  to  them  different  city  customs,  sing  them  city 
songs,  and  tell  one  tale  after  another.  And  they  would 
forget  their  country  plays  and  songs  and  stories  and 
listen  to  Angelica  with  enchantment. 

Of  course  when  the  schoolmistress  left  the  party  to 
go  home,  the  village  girls  would  remember  their  native 
ways,  and  so  they  ridiculed  their  poor  friend  in  a  thou- 
sand ways.  One  would  mimic  her  voice;  another  her 
uncommon  words;  another  her  roguish  eyes.  But  their 
play  was  entirely  innocent,  wathout  jealousy  and  with- 
out sting;  all  they  were  after  was  a  little  fun.  When 
they  had  done  with  laughing,  they  would  end  by  ex- 
pressing their  admiration  for  her  red  lips,  her  perfect 


ANGELICA  159 

white  teeth,  her  little  feet,  her  light  step,  her  orna- 
ments, her  dresses,  her  grace,  and  her  beauty. 

By  noticing  and  admiring  everything  about  her,  the 
village  girls  began  to  change  their  ways.  Of  course,  this 
change  was  slow  and  superficial.  A  peasant  girl  can- 
not change  her  nature.  Consequently  the  change  went 
only  so  far  as  a  few  words,  some  mannerisms,  and  some 
ornaments.  This  was  exactly  what  made  the  village 
fathers  look  on  the  fascinating  witch  with  misgivings. 
The  good  homespun  stuffs,  silks  and  linens  were  not 
enough  any  longer;  they  had  to  buy  from  the  shop  all 
kinds  of  ribbons  and  buttons  and  rags  in  addition. 
Worst  of  all,  the  imitation  was  not  perfect  and  so  you 
might  see  all  of  a  sudden  queer  combinations  of  city 
hats  and  country  necklaces,  or  French  furbelows  and 
short  country  jackets,  or  something  similar.  Now,  the 
fathers  found  no  particular  fault  with  the  strange 
fashions;  they  rather  liked  them,  but  what  impressed 
them  painfully  was  the  effect  they  had  on  their  pock- 
ets, the  expense  they  involved.  This  was  a  revolution 
that  was  bound  to  inspire  them  with  fear.  So  the  more 
fashionable  the  daughter  became  the  more  careful  the 
father  was  of  his  greasy  fur-coat  and  his  patched 
boots. 

But  the  trouble  did  not  stop  there.  Angelica,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  vivacious  and  talkative.  In  imitation  of 
her  the  tongues  of  the  peasant  girls  began  to  grow 
sharper  and  sharper,  sometimes  even  in  the  presence  of 


160  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

strangers.  At  times  they  would  go  as  far  as  to  say  a 
pert  word  to  their  fathers. 

Now  the  prominent  men  of  the  village  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  school-board  were  good  patriots  and  had  the 
progress  of  their  village  at  heart.  But  their  care  for 
their  households  was  superior  even  to  their  patriotism, 
and  every  time  they  assembled  in  the  coffee-house  to  play 
with  their  beads,  they  would  consider  various  plans  of 
curtailing  Angelica's  influence  somewhat.  They  could 
not  get  rid  of  her — that  was  plain.  A  teacher  they  had 
to  have  anyway.  Who  could  guarantee  a  better  one,  if 
they  should  dismiss  her?  They  might  get  a  worse 
one. 

"I  have  found  a  way  out,"  said  one  of  them  one  day. 
His  name  was  Beardless,  though  he  had  a  beard.  "Let 
us  make  our  schoolmistress  marry  someone.  She  will 
have  a  home  of  her  own  then  and  there  will  be  peace 
for  her  and  us,  too. ' ' 

"Marry  her?  How?  Didn't  you  hear  what  she  was 
telling  my  daughter  the  other  day  ?  It  was  a  shame,  she 
said,  that  a  girl  should  have  to  marry  a  man  her  parents 
wished  on  her,  instead  of  getting  a  man  of  her  own 
choice!" 

"Well,  then,  let  her  make  her  own  choice;  a  little 
management  and  the  thing  is  done." 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  there  lived  among  them 
a  man  with  a  good,  generous  heart,  Myzethras,  the 
master-mason.     He  was  the  victim  chosen  by  Beardless, 


ANGELICA  161 

who  found  him  one  evening  in  the  wine-shop  and  with 
a  few  words  led  him  into  his  trap. 

**  Why  do  you  waste  your  good  looks  and  your  youth?'* 
he  said.  "Where  will  you  be  able  to  find  again  such 
a  fairy,  such  a  sea-foam  of  beauty,  such  a  lily?  What 
is  better  than  such  a  woman  ?  You  have  enough  money ; 
what  does  it  matter  if  she  is  without  a  dowry?  Hurry 
up  and  get  ready  for  a  serenade.  If  you  are  afraid  of  a 
serenade  send  her  a  flower,  find  some  sort  of  pretext 
and  the  rest  will  take  care  of  itself.  Why  waste  any 
more  words?  Go  to  her  home  tonight  and  see 
whether  the  new  wall  is  really  settling.  Just  make 
a  beginning  and  don't  worry  about  the  rest.  I'll  be 
here. ' ' 

Myzethras  at  first  took  all  this  as  a  joke  on  Beard- 
less' part.  He  knew  Beardless  was  fond  of  teasing  peo- 
ple and  he  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  him.  But  as 
he  was  going  home  that  evening,  Myzethras  did  not  sing 
in  his  usual  way.  He  was  buried  in  strange  thoughts. 
He  had  lost  his  peace  of  mind.  Why  should  Beardless 
play  that  joke  on  him?  he  wondered.  Why  could  it  not 
be  true  as  well  ?  What  did  he  have  to  lose  if  he  should 
try  anyway?  If  he  succeeded,  what  man  in  the  village 
would  have  such  a  treasure  for  a  wife  ?  And  if  he  failed 
and  people  made  the  customary  song  about  it  Beardless 
would  have  to  bear  blame,  because  he  would  be  the 
cause  of  it  all. 

He  took  the  uphill  road  that  led  him  to  the  school- 


162  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

house.  He  stopped  for  a  while  to  get  his  breath.  Then 
he  cast  a  glance  at  Angelica's  windows  and  he  felt  an 
impulse  to  burst  into  loud  song.  But  he  refrained  and 
walked  on.  At  last  he  came  to  the  door.  His  heart 
was  trembling  now,  his  throat  was  getting  dry,  and 
he  perspired  with  anxiety.  He  stooped  to  peep  through 
the  keyhole  before  knocking.  He  saw  the  servant  in 
the  hall,  and  through  the  open  door  of  the  room  he 
could  see  Angelica  sitting  before  a  work-table,  bending 
over  her  embroidery. 

"Beardless  is  right,"  he  thought,  "she  is  a  devil  of 
a  girl !  A  fairy!  But  what  shall  I  tell  her  first?  Well, 
I  might  start  with  a  'good  evening,'  and  God  will  help 
me  with  the  rest." 

He  knocked  at  the  door.  The  maid  opened  it  and  the 
master-mason  entered. 

Angelica  started  up  half-frightened.  She  stood  as 
straight  as  a  church-taper  with  her  dark-brown  eyes 
wide  open,  wondering  what  he  wanted  at  such  a  late 
hour. 

"Good  evening  to  you,"  he  began,  "and  a  lamp, 
please,  to  light  my  way  to  the  cellar;  they  say  the  new 
wall  is  settling  and  Beardless  has  sent  me  to  look  it 
over." 

Angelica  directed  the  maid: 

"Maroula,  light  a  lamp  and  give  it  to  the  mason.  I 
hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  the  wall." 

"I  have  already  examined  it  from  outside.    I  found 


ANGELICA  163 

nothing  wrong  there.  But  I  had  better  examine  the 
inside,  too." 

He  went  down  to  the  cellar,  and  when  he  came  np 
reported  that  there  was  no  cause  for  fear,  and  they  had 
better  hush  the  matter  up  because  people  might  get 
scared  for  nothing  and  stop  sending  their  girls  to  school. 

During  the  report  he  had  the  chance  of  facing  An- 
gelica, standing.  Myzethras  was  not  a  bad  looking  lad 
at  all.  He  was  tall,  had  brown  eyes,  a  smart  thin  mous- 
tache, and  a  very  fine  tongue,  an  expert  in  winning 
words.  But  just  now  his  tongue  was  as  good  as  tied. 
What  could  he  say  to  her  and  the  maid  within  hear- 
ing? He  looked  all  around,  examining  every  wall  as  an 
excuse  to  linger.  Then,  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  he 
exclaimed:  "Since  I  am  here,  let  us  have  a  look  at 
the  schoolroom  from  the  inside."  He  took  the  lamp 
and  went  into  the  schoolroom  alone,  to  think  out  some 
way  to  begin.    Angelica  had  not  followed  him. 

''See  here!"  he  called  out. 

Angelica  entered  the  schoolroom.  Light  and  darknesa 
blended  in  the  spacious  room  with  no  other  light  than 
the  small  wick  of  the  lamp.  Angelica  walked  very 
lightly  and  stood  like  a  statue  before  him,  dazzling  him 
with  her  graceful  dress,  her  dark  brown  eyes,  her  white 
neck,  and  her  little  hands  pressed  against  her  bosom 
as  if  she  felt  the  chill  of  the  room. 

"That  crack  there  must  be  what  made  Beardless 
worry, ' '  he  remarked.    '  *  What  it  needs  is  a  little  plaster. 


164  MODERN    GREEK   STORIES 

that's  all.  The  building  is  as  sound  as  it  is  lucky.  All 
our  girls  improve  wonderfully  here." 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you  to  say  that,"  Angelica  replied 
with  a  smile. 

'  *  Madam,  village  folks  talk  straight.  I  could  tell  yon 
another  truth  if  I  was  not  afraid  you  might  take  it 
amiss, '  * 

"What  is  that?"  Angelica  was  curious  and  took  one 
step  nearer  him. 

"There  is  a  soul  in  the  village  who  is  almost  crazy 
about  you." 

"Is  that  so?  And  who  is  this  soul?  Tell  me  while 
we  are  here.    Nobody  can  hear  it." 

"What  if  you  get  angry?" 

"I  can  promise  you  I  won't;  why  should  I  get 
angry?" 

' '  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  then.  He  is  a  man  who  is  neither 
old  nor  poor.  He  hasn  't  got  much  education  but  he  has 
seen  a  little  of  the  world.  He  learned  his  trade  abroad. 
You  see,  he  is  a  skilled  workman.  He  cannot  tell  his 
trouble  like  a  book,  but  he  can  sing  like  a  bird  in  the 
woods.  He  can't  bow  like  a  Frenchman,  but  he  can 
love  like  a  Greek," 

"And  what's  his  name?"  asked  Angelica,  beating  her 
little  foot  with  impatience. 

"I  cannot  tell  his  name;  I  don't  dare,"  and  Myzeth- 
ras  stood  silent. 

"I  wonder  if  he  can  be  so  tall  and  handsome  and 


ANGELICA  165 

strong  and  sweet-spoken?"  Angelica  asked,  again  with 
a  laugh. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  I  can't;  my  mind  is  going  out  like 
this  lamp."  He  placed  the  lamp  on  a  desk  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  in  deep  thought. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  good  lad?  You  seem  to  be 
in  trouble." 

His  eyes  fixed  on  her,  Myzethras  had  an  inspiration. 
Spontaneously  he  burst  forth: 

**No  trouble  to  the  world  confessed 
Brings  such  a  sorry  plight 
As  love  that  bums  within  the  breast 
And  never  comes  to  light." 

The  teacher  began  to  understand  something.  But 
whether  from  a  desire  to  play  or  from  her  willingness 
to  spend  a  little  more  time  on  the  matter,  she  wanted 
to  hear  more  about  it  and  displayed  unsuspecting  inno- 
cence. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  are  deeply  in  love,"  she  said. 
"I  wonder  who  the  unfortunate  one  can  be  who  is 
ignorant  of  your  affection?" 

Myzethras'  eyes  were  in  flames  as  he  murmured; 

**  Angelica,  is  sugar-sweet. 

As  flower-kissed  bees,  home-flitting; 
Angelica  is  water  fresh, 

A  drink  for  angels  fitting." 


166  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Angelica  could  pretend  no  more.  A  shiver  ran 
through  her.  She  could  not  stay  any  longer  beside  him. 
He  might  stoop  and  kiss  her.  So  she  took  two  steps 
back,  put  on  her  air  of  indifference  as  to  a  stranger, 
and  cut  the  interview  short: 

"Well,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  the  wall.  It 
was  very  good  of  you  to  take  this  trouble."  And  she 
went  back  into  the  room. 

Myzethras  was  lost.  He  felt  the  sting  of  both  love 
and  shame.  He  looked  around  to  find  some  avenue  of 
retreat  so  that  he  might  not  again  meet  proud  Angelica. 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  outside  door  of  the  school  through 
which  the  girls  went  when  they  were  dismissed  and 
walked  straight  to  it.  .  He  opened  it  and  slipped  out  on 
tip-toe. 

But  when  he  had  reached  the  yard  and  had  started 
going  down  the  hill  the  breeze  blew  on  him  and  he 
recovered  himself.  Shame  had  gone,  but  love  still  re- 
mained. So  when  he  had  gone  a  little  further  and  saw 
the  plain  spreading  before  him,  and  the  moonlight  play- 
ing on  the  waves,  his  good  heart  was  again  awakened 
and  he  made  the  world  resound  with  his  song : 

**I  say  good-night  to  my  sweetheart,  I  will  not  tell  her         \ 
name. 
The  name  that  makes  my  eyes  shed  tears,  and  fills 
my  heart  with  pain." 


ANGELICA  167 

II 

"Tell  me,  please,  tell  me  some  more  of  your  enchant- 
ing little  songs,"  said  Angelica  one  evening  to  the  girls 
who  were  busy  sewing  and  embroidering  in  the  light 
of  the  oil  lamp.  '  *  They  are  very,  very  pretty  and  sweet 
and  fragrant  like  royal  mint.  Tell  me  some  more!  I 
am  just  dying  for  these  country  blossoms  of  yours 
which  you  scorn,  my  poor  girls,  not  realizing  what  a 
treasure  is  yours !  0  my  village,  my  dear  little  village ! 
Where  can  you  get  such  an  evening  party  in  a  city? 
Where  else  can  you  hear  such  scented  little  songs  ?  Some 
day  I  will  know  them,  too,  these  songs.  I  just  can't  live 
without  them."  At  the  same  time  she  began  humming 
one  of  the  village  airs : 

"My  little  cypress,  young  and  tall,  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you; 
Just  bend  your  head  to  hear  my  words ;  and  take  my 
life  so  true." 

A  ripple  of  laughter  ran  around  the  group.  The  girls 
seemed  to  have  gone  mad. 

*  *  How  well  she  sings  them !  As  if  she  had  been  born 
among  us  in  the  village,  the  little  rogue!" 

"Bah!  Didn't  you  know  I  was  born  in  a  village? 
Of  course,  they  took  me  to  the  city  very  young,  poor 
girl,   because  I   had  neither  father  nor  mother.     My 


168  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

old  uncle,  Father  Phlessas,  took  me  to  the  city  and 
brought  me  up  and  gave  me  my  education.  Yet  I  re- 
member my  blessed  mother  as  if  she  lived  only  yester- 
day. I  will  show  you  how  she  looked.  Everybody  says 
I  am  just  like  her." 

She  took  a  country  scarf  and  bound  it  about  her  head 
and  looked  at  them  with  quiet  and  thoughtful  eyes.  She 
was  exactly  like  a  picture  now. 

The  country  girls  sat  and  looked  at  her  with  silent 
astonishment.  They  were  deeply  moved  and  two  of 
them  were  actually  crying. 

"You  are  one  of  us,  Angelica.  Get  it  out  of  your 
head  that  you  will  make  Frenchwomen  of  us,"  said  the 
oldest  of  them. 

**Make  Frenchwomen  of  you?  God  forbid!  Better 
see  to  it  that  you  don't  make  a  Frenchwoman  of  me 
now  that  I  have  become  a  country  girl  again.  One  week 
more  and  you  will  sing  a  bridal  song  for  me!" 

All  the  girls  were  thunderstruck!  They  dropped 
their  handiwork  and  looked  at  each  other  with  amaze- 
ment. Then  they  started  screaming  and  screeching  like 
mad  and  jumped  up,  crowding  around  Angelica,  want- 
ing to  know  exactly  what  she  meant. 

"Just  let  me  get  my  breath,  and  I  will  tell  you. 
Simple  enough;  I  fell  in  love  with  a  young  lad  and  I 
will  marry  him.  Don't  get  jealous.  He's  nobody's 
sweetheart.  He  is  from  another  neighborhood.  He  is 
neither  old  nor  poor.    He  hasn  't  got  much  education  but 


ANGELICA  169 

he  knows  his  trade.    He  can't  tell  his  love  like  a  book 
but  he  can  sing  like  a  bird  iii  the  woods." 

"And  his  name?"  all  shouted  at  the  same  time. 

"His  name?    Something  that  tastes  nice  with  honey." 

"  Myzethras !  "*  exclaimed  the  oldest  girl. 

"Right!  And  since  you  are  the  first  to  find  him  out 
you  will  come  to  help  the  bride  dress  on  her  wedding 
day.     It  will  be  at  Beardless'  home." 

It  turned  out  exactly  as  she  had  said.  Beardless,  like 
a  good  man,  assumed  the  part  of  a  kind  father  and  took 
the  whole  affair  into  his  hands. 

Angelica  insisted  on  being  a  real  country  bride.  There 
was  gold-dust  and  all  kinds  of  ornaments  and  good  times 
such  as  make  country  people  call  a  wedding  "joy," 

As  for  the  bridegroom,  nobody  could  ever  put  a  stop 
to  his  wild  enthusiasm.  Even  during  the  ceremony,  he 
bent  over  and  said  to  Beardless : 

"I  am  a  king!  Angelica  is  my  crown!  And  you  are 
my  vizier!" 

He  was  not  far  from  right.  Beardless  had  managed 
the  whole  affair  like  a  regular  vizier.  He  was  the  man 
who  had  gone  and  stirred  up  Angelica's  flame  after  that 
historic  evening.  He  had  carried  the  wedding  message 
to  Myzethras'  mother.  Within  two  weeks  everything 
was  finished  and  mother  Myzethras  had  settled  down 
with  her  son  and  daughter-in-law,  determined  to  live  for- 

♦Myzethra   is   a  kind   of   soft   cheese    somewhat   like   cream 
cheese,  eaten  with  honey  in  various  places  in  Greece. 


170  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

ever  with  them  and  to  take  care  of  her  grandchildren 
while  Angelica  was  running  her  school. 

The  schoolmistress  had  now  become  a  respectable 
matron;  she  dressed,  spoke  and  behaved  like  everybody 
else;  and  the  village  girls  were  cured  of  the  craze  that 
had  been  driving  them  to  ape  the  manners  of  French- 
women. 


A  MAN'S  DEATH 
By  KosTES  Pat.amas 


A  MAN'S   DEATH 


DEDICATION 


Tms  story  I  dedicate  to  you,  simple  and  illiterate 
woman,  to  you,  my  poor  Dawn.  It  was  from  your  mouth 
that  I  heard  it  first  and  I  tried  to  keep  it  as  faithfully 
as  I  could  so  that  I  might  be  just  your  own  echo.  For 
when  you  talk,  a  whole  people  whispers  your  words, 
and  though  you  don't  know  it,  every  story  you  tell  is 
a  poem  of  the  race.  You  are  no  woman;  you  are 
heralding  Rumor.  You  have  nothing  of  the  flesh;  you 
are  made  of  soul.  Your  eyes  are  never  still,  never  dusky. 
Whatever  you  tell  is  living  before  you  and  you  see  every- 
thing as  Imagination  would  see  it.  For  this  reason  your 
words  are  alive  and  your  speech  wise,  my  simple  and 
illiterate  woman.  Your  eyes  magnetize  me,  your  words 
fascinate  me,  and  I  feel  something  that  day  by  day 
binds  me  closer  to  you.  You  first  sang  to  me,  a  baby  in 
the  cradle;  may  the  last  words  that  reach  my  ears  on 
my  deathbed  come  from  your  mouth. 

A  Man's  Death 

No  one  had  gone  to  bed;  everybody  was  up.  How 
could  they  sleep  on  such  a  great  night, — Good  Friday 

173 


174  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

night!  It  was  past  midnight  and  the  bells  of  all  three 
little  chapels  of  the  Village  by  the  Sea  were  dumb. 
When  Christ  suffers,  bells,  too,  like  things  with  human 
souls,  are  silent  and  cannot  make  a  sound  because  of 
their  deep  pain.  But  the  children  deafened  every- 
body with  their  wooden  rattles  and  ran  from  street 
to  street  and  from  door  to  door,  shouting  at  the 
top  of  their  voices:  "Time  for  Church!  Time  for 
Church!'' 

A  few  sleepy  ones  were  startled,  jumped  up  and 
rushed  to  the  windows.  They  thought  it  was  early  dawn 
and  the  procession  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  was  passing 
through  the  street. 

For  love  of  Christ,  once  a  year,  on  Good  Friday  night 
the  bells  of  the  Village  by  the  Sea  are  dumb;  just  the 
bells.  Because  from  end  to  end  the  whole  village  is  up 
and  stirring  for  love  of  Christ,  once  a  year,  on  Good 
Friday  night. 

So  it  happened  on  that  night,  too.  Women  and  men, 
together  or  separately,  were  coming  out  of  their  homes 
or  their  coffee-houses,  and  starting  for  church.  Their 
footsteps  fell  heavy  on  the  pavements  and  became  more 
and  more  distant  in  the  echo  of  the  night,  dripping  with 
cool  April  dew.  The  moon,  weary  for  sleep,  was  about 
to  set;  and  its  light  fell  dimmer  and  dimmer  on  the 
dark  old  huts  with  their  weathered  walls  and  on  the 
crooked  streets  which  somehow  were  never  without  a 
bit  of  mud.    The  churches  were  brilliant  with  light ;  and 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  175 

their  doors  wide  open.  Now  and  then  you  could  hear 
the  reader's  voice  just  before  the  beginning  of  the 
lamentations. 

But  the  great  celebration  was  taking  place  outside  the 
churches.  Around  big  fires,  fed  with  rosin,  vine-twigs, 
old  lumber,  sweepings,  wooden  troughs,  wash-baskets, 
and  sometimes  with  a  whole  window  frame — God  help 
the  low  houses  and  thoughtless  housewives  on  such  a 
night — a  whole  lot  of  children  of  all  sorts,  and  among 
them  even  men  with  moustaches,  jumped  and  ran  and 
shouted  and  acted  like  mad.  In  the  dark,  quiet  night 
skyrockets  went  flashing  and  big  cannon-crackers — ^Lord 
help  us! — and  Chinese  crackers  and  grasshoppers  all 
skilfully  made  with  reed  and  heavy  paper  filled  with 
lots  of  powder.  Inside  the  church  collection  was  taken 
for  powder.  Grown  men  and  boys  singed  themselves 
and  glistened  in  the  midst  of  the  lights  and  flames  of  all 
these  fireworks  for  the  good  of  the  season.  The  whole 
Village  by  the  Sea  smelled  of  powder,  and  one  parish 
seemed  at  war  with  another. 

It  wasn't  the  churches  only  that  were  open  in  that 
hour.  Here  and  there  one  could  find  a  public  kitchen 
or  a  coffee-house  with  half-opened  door.  It  was  not  in 
everybody's  power  to  stand  on  his  feet  in  church  all 
the  time,  until  3 :00  A.  M.,  when  the  procession  to  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  was  to  start  out !  With  a  cup  of  strong 
sweet  coffee,  some  tit-bit  or  other,  and  a  draught  or  two 
of  wine  from  Pyrgos,  a  man  could  come  to,  after  the 


176  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

fasting  period,  and  pick  np  enough  strength  to  join  the 
procession  of  the  Sepulchre;  and  so,  one  after  another, 
small  companies  with  refreshed  stomachs  were  walking 
slowly  toward  the  church. 

One  merry  company  had  forgotten  itself  in  Psemenos' 
tavern  till  the  very  last.  There  were  Metros  Rumeliotes, 
Yannakos  Tarnanamas,  Markos  Kaninias,  and  Chari- 
taina's  son,  whom  nobody  called  by  his  name  till  he  had 
forgotten  it  himself  and  answered  only  to  the  name  of 
Taria  Tarela.  All  four  were  seamen.  The  first  owned 
a  fishing  boat;  the  second  worked  on  it;  the  third  was 
working  with  the  transport  boats ;  and  Taria  Tarela  was 
a  fisherman.  All  four  were  twenty-five  years  old  and 
had  lived  like  brothers  since  they  were  small  children. 
Wine  and  talk  had  lit  up  their  heads,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  Good  Friday  they  might  have  taken  to  loud  sing- 
ing. Song  somewhat  timid  and  soft  tried  to  spring  from 
their  lips  against  their  will  even  on  such  a  night.  But 
at  last  they  were  aware  that  it  was  late.  They  could 
hear  the  lamentations  sung  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  Nicholas 
just  a  few  steps  from  the  tavern.  Psemenos  was  on  the 
wing,  ready  to  close  up.  They  all  jumped  up  and 
walked  out  into  the  street.  **I  forgot  those  Roman  can- 
dles ! "  shouted  Kaninias.  They  were  going  to  light  them 
in  the  procession.  *  *  I  put  them  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
on  the  left  side  of  the  cover,"  said  Metros.  **Wait  a 
minute;  I  will  fetch  them." 

Hurriedly  he  turned  toward  the  coffee-house,  but  as 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  177 

he  turned  on  tlie  pavement  he  slipped  and — pop! — he 
fell  down  flat  with  a  heavy  thud. 

Three  loud  laughs  escaped  from  the  mouths  of 
Markos,  Yannakos  and  Taria,  while  a  painful  cry,  "  I  'ra 
done  for,"  was  heard  from  Metros. 

"Come,  now,  man,  don't  say  'done  for,'  get  up;  did 
you  hurt  yourself?" 

"I  say,  I  am  done  for!  I  can't  get  up!  Can't  you 
believe  me?" 

He  stopped  with  a  groan  and  his  voice  sounded 
broken  and  plaintive  as  if  it,  too,  had  been  hurt  in  the 
fall.  It  struck  their  ears  so  painful  and  so  low  that  it 
seemed  to  come  from  the  very  heart  of  the  man ;  and  it 
was  so  changed  with  pain  and  so  faint,  that  all  three 
felt  their  bodies  covered  with  sweat.  They  saw  it  was 
no  joke. 

''Metros,  old  boy!"  was  all  they  could  say,  and  they 
hurried  to  get  hold  of  him  and  help  him  up. 

"All  for  nothing!  A  bad  step — I  slipped — it  seems 
on  some  fruit — it  must  have  been  a  lemon  peel — such  bad 
luck — I  am  done  for !    Oh ! ! " 

His  voice  became  weaker  and  more  plaintive.  He  tried 
to  stand  up  but  could  not.    The  others  had  to  lift  him. 

"Courage,  Metros!" 

Metros  could  not  stand  on  his  feet;  one  leg,  the  right 
one,  he  could  not  feel  at  all.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a 
piece  of  iron  which  he  could  not  move.  They  held  him 
up  by  slipping  their  arms  under  his  armpits.    Psemenoa 


178  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

had  closed  his  shop  and  stood  by  to  see  whether  he 
could  help.  Farther  away  the  children's  voices  were 
heard  from  the  church,  loud  and  cheerful.  The  rockets 
rose  into  the  sky  and  the  night  was  all  flashes  and  racket 
and  whistles,  with  showers  of  sparks.  Through  the  door 
and  windows  of  St.  Nicholas  Church  the  lighted  tapers 
and  candles  of  the  procession  of  the  Sepulchre  seemed 
like  so  many  stars.  Clear  voices  from  children's  throats 
sang: 

*'Siveet  spring, 
Sweet  cliild  of  mine 
Where  is  thy  beauty  gone?** 

"Let  us  take  him  home." 

"Go  and  fetch  my  mother,  Kaninias;  she  is  gone  to 
church." 

* '  You  are  right :  Kaninias,  go  through  the  little  back 
door  and  speak  to  the  chapel-keeper  first.  She  may  tell 
her  that  someone  is  looking  for  her ;  use  some  tact. ' ' 

"Don't  scare  the  old  woman  blue,  brother;  just  tell 
her  Metros  would  like  to  speak  to  her." 

The  widow  of  Demos,  Metros'  mother,  was  in  church; 
she  had  been  there  since  the  evening  before  with  the 
other  women ;  she  had  spent  the  night  by  the  Sepulchre. 
Her  husband  had  died  before  she  reached  middle  age; 
and  ever  since  that  time  good-bye  to  jackets  of  gold 
brocade,  dashing  skirts  and  red  fez!     She  kept  house 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  179 

only  for  Metros'  sake,  her  only  boy,  and  when  she  went 
out  it  was  to  take  care  of  the  little  vineyard  she  had 
inherited  from  her  husband.  On  her  way  to  the  vine- 
yard she  had  to  go  through  the  graveyard,  and  now  and 
then  she  would  light  a  taper  and  burn  some  incense  on 
the  blessed  man's  grave.  She  was  a  strong,  industrious 
woman.  But  when  her  son  grew  up  and  sailed  with  the 
ships,  following  his  father's  trade,  and  when,  by  and 
by,  with  his  mother's  blessing  and  by  his  own  labor,  he 
had  become  the  owner  of  a  sailing  boat,  the  widow  of 
Demos  remembered  that  she  was  a  Christian  woman. 
She  had  taken  care  of  her  little  fledgling ;  she  might  now 
take  care  of  her  own  soul.  From  that  time  on  she  went 
to  church  more  often;  and  as  the  years  went  by — she 
was  now  in  the  sixties — she  felt  she  was  becoming  more 
and  more  pious.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  more 
afraid  of  witchcraft  and  of  fairies,  a  state  of  mind  which 
she  could  not  understand  herself. 

**Mrs.   Demaina,   they   are   looking   for  you.     Your 

son "    The  keeper  of  the  church  whispered  the  words 

into  the  mother's  ears  as  she  tugged  at  her  dress. 

"My  boy?    What  does  he  want  of  me?" 

She  had  not  finished  her  question  when  Markos 
Kaninias  appeared  before  her,  without  a  hat  and  pant- 
ing hard: 

"It  is  nothing,  Mrs.  Demaina;  Metros  has  only 
sprained  his  ankle." 

Up  jumped  the  old  woman.     A  rumor  started  about 


180  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

her,  and  the  women  began  talking  in  whispers.  "Keep 
quiet,  women!"  shouted  the  deacons  with  anger.  But 
how  could  the  women  keep  silent  ?  Something  had  hap- 
pened. What  sort  of  sprain  was  this?  Someone  had 
heen  burned  with  the  cannon  crackers ;  someone  had  been 
stabbed.  In  a  moment  half  the  church  was  empty.  Who 
could  hold  the  people  back  ?  The  church  could  be  found 
again ;  but  such  accidents — God  deliver  us ! — cannot  hap- 
pen every  day. 

*' My  eyes!  My  eyes!  Christ  help  us !"  cried  the  old 
woman,  running.  Outside  the  church  her  boy  was  stand- 
ing before  her,  leaning  against  the  wall,  with  his  com- 
panions near  him  and  five  or  six  other  men. 

"It  is  nothing,  Mother;  I  slipped  and  fell;  my  knee 
is  a  little  hurt.  Let  us  go  home  and  have  something 
done  for  it.'* 

The  poor  woman  felt  a  great  stone  removed  from  her 
breast.  She  had  feared  that  something  worse  had  hap- 
pened ;  but  when  she  saw  him  standing  like  that  before 
her  in  the  half-dimmed  light  of  the  moon  she  breathed 
again. 

"Christ  help  us!    It  was  an  evil  hour,  my  boy!" 

But  she  did  not  know  that  IMetros  could  not  stand 
upon  his  legs  and  that  he  himself  had  asked  the  boys 
to  help  him  lean  against  the  wall  so  that  his  mother 
might  not  be  shocked  too  suddenly.  While  he  was  ask- 
ing them  to  aid  him  in  that  position,  he  had  thought 
also  of  something  else,  which  did  not  escape  his  lips — 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  181 

"How  will  Phrosyne  take  it  when  she  sees  me!" 

Phrosyne  was  his  sweetheart. 

Holding,  dragging,  half-lifting  him,  they  finally 
reached  the  house.  That  year  neither  the  widow  of 
Demos,  Markos  Kaninias,  Yannakos  Tarnanamas,  nor 
Taria  Tarela  took  any  joy  in  the  procession  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre.  The  sick  man  could  not  close  his  eves;  he 
suffered  from  pain  and  groaned  like  a  bull.  His  leg 
swelled  and  swelled  until  it  became  like  a  pillar! 

They  called  the  best  doctor  in  the  Sea  Village,  a 
well-educated  doctor  with  a  good  name.  He  had  saved 
many  from  death's  hands.  True,  the  village  folk  called 
on  him  only  in  the  last  moment,  when  they  had  lost 
all  faith  in  the  men  and  women  quacks.  For  this  reason 
he  appeared  chronically  angry ;  not  because  he  was  losing 
anything  from  not  being  called  sooner  but  because  they 
were  risking  their  lives,  the  fools,  by  trusting  mere 
cheats.  But,  just  the  same,  he  did  his  work,  and  after 
he  had  saved  his  patient  he  would  burst  into  scoldings, 
whether  you  paid  him  or  not.  At  first  men  were  afraid 
of  him,  airs  had  no  effect  upon  him.  But  when  they 
got  used  to  his  ways  they  could  not  do  without  him. 
He  looked  more  like  a  skipper  than  a  doctor.  This  time 
Markos  Kaninias,  Yannakos  Tarnanamas,  and  Taria 
Tarela  acted  honestly  and  wisely;  they  went  directly  to 
the  doctor's  and  would  not  pay  any  attention  to  Mrs. 
Demaina,  who  wanted  to  call  on  Madame  Mariye  of  Con- 
stantinople because  she  could  avert  the  evil  eye,  overcome 


182  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

mysterious  diseases,  and  straighten  out  dislocated  bones 
and  was  good  for  anything. 

The  doctor  looked  the  leg  over.  What  a  devil's  hurt, 
right  on  the  knee-cap,  the  very  hinge  of  the  leg!  He 
looked  at  it  carefully  then  he  wrapped  it  tight  between 
reeds — bandaged  it,  as  the  doctors  say,  and  then  spoke : 

"Don't  move  it;  your  leg  will  be  cured  but  it  will 
take  time  and  patience.  "With  time  the  tendon  will  turn 
back  and  your  leg  will  be  well.  Only,  for  your  sake, 
don't  bother  it." 

He  repeated  the  last  words  again  and  again : 

"Don't  bother  it!" 

He  knew  how  stubborn  the  folks  of  the  Village  by  the 
Sea  were. 

Metros  Roumeliotes  had  a  big  heart  and  great  pa- 
tience. But  the  trouble  that  had  come  to  him  was  God 's 
curse.  The  folks  of  the  Village  by  the  Sea  might  have 
a  thousand  minds  for  one  thing;  for  Metros  they  had 
only  one:  Metros  was  a  man!  They  laughed  about 
education  but  they  did  worship  manhood — Metros  had 
never  set  foot  within  a  school.  He  had  learned  his  les- 
sons from  the  sun,  the  wind,  and  the  waves ;  and  among 
them  he  had  grown  from  his  childhood  up.  There  was 
nothing  uncommon  about  his  appearance.  His  breast 
was  no  "mossy  wall,"  and  his  head  no  "castle,"  like 
the  hero's  in  the  old  folk  song.  He  was  neither  tall 
nor  short;  rather  thin  than  stout,  of  dark  complexion, 
with  a  thin  moustache  and  thick  curly  hair;  he  wore 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  183 

his  cap  jauntily  on  one  side  and  a  red  scarf  was  wound 
many  times  about  his  waist.  Winter  and  summer  he 
wore  a  flannel  shirt.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  ordinary  ap- 
pearance, he  was  bubbling  over  with  manly  vigor  which 
one  could  see  in  his  bearing,  in  his  walk  and  in  every 
glance  and  movement. 

So  Metros  Roumeliotes,  with  his  twenty-five  years,  his 
inconspicuous  body  and  his  almost  shy  appearance  could 
make  and  unmake  a  world.  Nobody  could  outrun  him ; 
with  his  fist  he  could  bring  down  a  buffalo.  When  he 
planted  his  feet  on  the  ground,  no  man  could  move  him. 
One  day  Yannakos  Tamanamas,  Markos  Kaninias  and 
Taria  Terela  struggled  for  a  whole  hour,  with  their  hands 
around  his  legs,  trying  to  pull  him  from  his  place.  In 
vain!  He  stood  as  firm  as  a  rock.  At  the  end,  with 
their  struggling  and  sweating  they  were  so  dizzy  they 
came  very  near  fainting.  But  with  those  legs  of  his — 
which  were  so  iron-hard  that  nobody  could  even  bend 
them,  he  could  fly  and  jump  and  whirl  around  as  if  he 
were  made  of  wings  and  flame  and  wind,  whenever  the 
son  of  the  widow  of  Demos  led  a  dance. 

Every  year,  on  the  festival  of  St.  Elijah,  on  the  slopes 

of  Mt.  Zygos,  where  the  cold  water  runs  and  the  plane 

trees  with  their  leaves  make  a  cheerful  shelter  of  cool 

breezes  and  shadows  and  sweet  whispers,  near  the  hiding 

places  of  the  old  klephts,*  Metros  Roumeliotes,  in  his 

♦  Popular  heroes  who,  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  roamed  in 
the  mountains  whence  they  made  raids  on  the  Turks  to  avenge 
the  victims  of  Turkish  tyranny.  They  are  the  theme  of  many 
beautiful  folk  songs  in  Greece. 


184  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

white  kilts  and  the  gold  armor  of  his  grandfather,  who 
had  been  a  squire  to  Makres,  the  famous  mountain  chief, 
would  go  with  the  other  villagers  to  the  festival  and 
dance.  All  others  then  would  drop  their  own  fun,  gather 
around  him,  and  forget  themselves  in  gazing.  Every 
step  of  his  in  the  dance,  alert  and  swift  like  the  motion 
of  wings,  diffused  sweetness  and  aroused  manhood  in 
everyone.  It  transported  one  into  another  world,  the 
world  of  legends  and  of  strong  warriors  who  would  first 
dance  with  other  young  people  on  the  plains  and  then 
fight  with  Charon  on  the  marble  threshing  floors.*  The 
women  who  saw  him  then  would  remember  him  many 
months  after  the  festival  with  pride  in  their  hearts. 
Often  companies  came  from  the  neighboring  villages 
and  even  from  other  towns  to  St.  Elijah's  festival,  not 
so  much  for  the  festival  itself  as  to  see  this  dancer. 

It  was  then  that  Phrosj-ne,  the  daughter  of  Sebdas, 
the  best  little  girl  from  Melissi,  three  miles  from  the 
Village  by  the  Sea,  first  saw  him.  He  saw  her,  too,  and 
they  were  well  matched.  After  a  few  months,  in  the 
springtime,  old  Sebdas  sent  a  wedding  message  to  the 
widow  of  Demos,  and  the  message  was  well  received. 
The  betrothal  took  place  at  Melissi.  To  this  ceremony 
Metros  came  bringing  along  his  mother,  Yannakos  Tar- 

*In  many  a  Greek  legend  today  Charon,  the  death-god,  rides 
on  a  black  steed  over  the  earth,  dragging  behind  him  the  souls 
he  vanquishes.  Often  he  meets  with  stout  resistance  and  defeat 
at  the  hands  of  such  heroes  as  are  referred  to  in  the  text  of  the 
story. 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  185 

nanamas,  Markos  Kaninias  and  Taria  Terela,  his  insep- 
erable  friends,  and  all  his  relatives.  After  a  few  days, 
he  went  there  again  with  the  same  crowd  to  bring  the 
gifts  to  his  future  bride,  according  to  the  old  custom: 
cloth  and  silk  stuff,  a  bracelet,  and  a  dozen  silver  saucers. 
For  two  days  they  celebrated  joyously  with  violin 
music,  and  appointed  the  day  after  Easter  for  their 
wedding.  But  before  Easter  day,  the  evil  hour  had 
come,  and  Metros  could  not  return  to  Melissi. 

Many  had  envied  the  fortune  of  young  Phrosyne. 
There  was  a  girl  in  the  village,  a  small  vivid  brunette, 
full  of  laughter  and  whim,  Morfo,*  the  daughter  of 
Garoufalia, — Crazy  Morfo,  as  the  neighbors  called  her, 
— almost  died  of  grief  when  she  heard  of  the  betrothal. 
She  was  no  more  seen  in  her  little  piazza,  watering  her: 
fragrant  flowers  and  mints,  humming  the  tune  of  her 
favorite  dance,  "Black  Little  Shoe,"  and  casting  sweet 
glances  on  anyone  who  went  by.  Only  late  at  dusk  some 
of  the  women  neighbors,  watching  through  their  window 
railings,  saw  Morfo  two  or  three  times  as  she  passed 
Metros'  home,  covered  all  over  with  a  scarf.  She  would 
linger  before  his  lighted  window  for  a  while,  and  then, 
casting  frightened  glances  about  her,  would  run  away 
like  a  scared  deer.  Love  for  Metros  had  burned  in  her 
heart  and  she  had  hoped  that  some  day  he  would  take 
her  as  his  wife. 

*The  name  means  "Beautiful."  "Garoufalia"  means  "carna- 
tion flower."  Both  are  common  names  throughout  Greece  among 
the  peasantry. 


186  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

Metros  Roumeliotes  was  a  real  man,  and  had  all  the 
gifts  of  a  man ;  speech,  impulse,  sense  of  humor,  beauty, 
pride,  love  of  life  and  contempt  of  death.  He  had  gone 
through  many  seastorms  and  survived  many  ship- 
wrecks. On  the  open  sea,  his  courage  -was  beyond 
measure.  Without  provocation,  he  gave  no  trouble.  But 
should  you  offend  him  or  touch  him  where  you  should 
not,  you  did  so  at  your  peril.  He  was  not  afraid  of  fire- 
arms, nor  did  he  care  much  about  them.  Once  he  got 
into  trouble  with  ten  Highland  soldiers,  all  picked  men, 
and  he  chased  them  all  the  way  back  to  their  barracks. 
He  never  took  account  of  danger,  never  cared  for  pain, 
and  never  feared  death.  One  thought  alone  chilled  his 
blood  and  made  him  marble  stiff.  He  dreaded  to  be 
a  cripple. 

The  injury  to  his  leg  cost  him  more  anguish  than  any 
other  misfortune.  He  would  rather  stand  the  loss  of 
his  property  and  the  pains  of  a  thousand  pests  than 
be  permanently  lamed.  Better  death!  If  he  was  to 
be  cured,  he  must  be  cured  without  a  sign  of  lameness. 
If  he  was  to  leave  his  bed,  he  must  not  leave  it  with  a 
crooked  leg.  Never  that !  For  Metros  Roumeliotes, 
without  realizing  it,  worshipped  only  one  God,  and  that 
God  was  Beauty;  the  holy  Beauty  of  manly  vigor  and 
health  that  has  the  body  for  a  temple.  Let  every  evil 
in  the  world  assail  that  body;  but  no  trace  of  their 
attack  should  be  left  on  it  as  an  insult  and  defilement. 
A  crippled  body  is  a  disgraced  body.    For  men  like  the 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  187 

son     of    the    widow    of    Demos,    ugliness    was     dis- 
honor. 

Prom  the  night  of  the  accident  until  the  day  when 
he  first  left  his  bed  to  walk,  three  months  went  by.  He 
spent  them  patiently.  The  doctor  had  told  him  he 
would  surely  be  cured.  But  when  he  saw  that  his  leg 
was  crooked  and  that  he  could  not  bend  it;  that  his 
knee  had  been  turned  and  that  he  was  limping,  he  lost 
all  hope.  A  silent  complaint  seized  him,  and  a  sorrow 
that  no  learned  man  could  describe  held  him  fast.  He 
consigned  to  the  dogs  doctor  and  drugs,  and  lay  in  bed 
again,  longing  for  death.  In  vain  his  poor  mother  tried 
to  console  him,  the  mother  who  within  those  three 
months  had  grown  ten  years  older. 

"Don't  say  a  word.  Mother.  Either  my  leg  will  be 
cured,  or  I  don't  want  to  live.  No  man  shall  call  me 
a  cripple!" 

When  one  day  some  of  his  friends  went  so  far  as  to 
say,  **See,  you  are  all  right  now!  Don't  be  so  par- 
ticular.. Come,  let's  go  to  Melissi.  Your  girl  is  crazy 
to  see  you,"  Metros  was  angry.  "May  I  never  look 
upon  her,  if  it  is  to  be  in  such  a  condition.  Better  a 
homeless  hermit  in  the  mountains  than  a  bridegroom 
with  a  crooked  leg!" 

The  memory  of  his  sweetheart  opened  his  heart's 
wounds  again.  How  could  he  go  to  Melissi  ?  What  could 
they  do  with  him  if  he  went?    Should  they  embalm  him 


188  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

in  order  to  look  at  him?  Or  should  they  hang  him  on 
the  wall  for  a  saint's  picture?  Then  he  imagined  him- 
self in  the  bridegroom's  place,  at  the  time  when  they 
would  have  to  drag  him  single-legged  about  the  altar 
during  the  sacred  Isaiah  Dance.*  He  thought  of  him- 
self unable  to  sit  down  at  mealtimes,  unable  to  lead  the 
dance,  to  run,  to  display  his  strength,  to  wrestle,  to  jest, 
or  sport.  Then  he  saw  himself  as  captain  of  his  own 
ship,  unable  to  stand  on  his  feet,  leaning  on  a  staff,  hold- 
ing to  the  ropes  and  depending  on  another  for  every- 
thing. They  had  promised  a  man  to  the  bride  and 
now  they  were  to  give  her  a  cripple!  He  could  never 
bring  himself  to  enslave  the  girl.  Though  she  was  good- 
hearted  and  would  never  show  it,  she  would  certainly 
feel  the  secret  pain  in  her  heart.  Such  is  the  world.  He 
himself  would  have  felt  the  same  way.  He  would  rather 
shoulder  a  pest  than  a  crippled  woman. 

**I  am  losing  my  child,"  often  complained  the  widow 
of  Demos,  "and  it  won't  be  his  leg  that  will  kiU  him, 
but  his  grief  over  it." 

And  she  would  cry  and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
The  three  inseparable  friends  thought  of  their  brave 
Metros  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  when  the  work  was 
over  they  would  run  to  his  side  to  keep  him  company 

♦Just  before  the  conclusion  of  the  Greek  wedding  ceremony 
the  priest  in  his  vestments  leads  the  bride  and  bridegroom  about 
the  altar  in  a  solemn  dance,  followed  by  the  maid  of  honor  and 
best  man.  With  joined  hands  they  dance  in  a  circle,  while  the 
guests  shower  the  couple  with  confetti.  The  song  begins  with 
the  words  "Isaiah,  dance.   ..." 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  189 

and  comfort  him.  All  in  vain !  He  would  not  listen  to 
anyone.  He  had  been  patient  for  three  months.  He 
could  no  more  stand  the  feeling  of  that  cursed  limb  of 
his,  a  withered  part  of  his  own  body.  He  would  seize 
a  saw  and  saw  it  away,  or  take  an  axe  and  chop  it  off. 
* '  There  is  no  God !    That  is  the  end  of  it ! " 


II 


August  had  come.  The  sick  man  could  lift  his  leg 
but  he  could  not  bear  other  men's  eyes  upon  him;  and 
so  he  kept  himself  shut  in  his  own  home.  From  his 
window  one  could  see  the  peaceful  harbor  of  the  Sea 
Village  changing  to  a  thousand  colors  like  a  thousand 
dreams  at  every  kiss  of  the  sun  from  morning  to  dusk. 
One  could  face  the  open  sea,  rose-blue  at  dawn,  silver- 
gold  at  noon,  black-green  a  little  later,  and  violet  for  a 
while  at  sunset.  Sometimes  it  would  tremble  with  all 
the  colors  mingling  together  like  a  whole  world  with  a 
world's  cares  and  passions. 

Sometimes  the  winds  would  push  the  peaceful  waters 
of  the  Village  by  the  Sea  far  towards  the  outer  bay  and 
sometimes  would  spread  them  flooding  towards  the  land. 
The  north  wind  would  give  them  a  different  appearance ; 
the  northwest,  a  different  sweetness;  the  west  wind  a 
different  smell,  the  south  wind  different  waves. 

But  more  than  all  the  colors  and  murmurings,  and 
breezes,  and  charms  of  the  sea,  the  sick  man,  sitting  at 


190  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

his  window,  felt  the  call  of  the  little  ships  that  skipped 
lightly  and  quietly  over  the  water  so  much  like  the  black 
terns  and  snow-white  gulls  that  one  could  hardly  tell 
them  apart.  He  saw  the  fishing  boats  sail  empty  away 
and  come  back  laden  to  the  shore.  Farther  out  the 
freight  boats  would  take  in  the  bales  of  raisins  for  the 
great  city.  From  the  back  side  of  the  house  he  could 
see  the  green  belt  of  the  plains.  Amber  grapes  were 
gleaming  on  the  vines  and  the  raisins  lay  darkening  on 
the  threshing  floors.  How  the  fruitful  plain  was  filled 
with  fragrance!  At  dawn  and  at  dusk  every  property 
owner  was  busy  going  and  coming.  The  workers,  men 
from  Cephalonia  with  their  picks,  and  women  from 
Amplanite  with  their  baskets,  passed  back  and  forth 
under  his  window.  The  sea  sent  him  its  salt  smell  and 
the  plain  its  fragrance;  and  the  more  he  felt  himself 
crippled,  the  more  beautiful  he  thought  the  world  was; 
and  the  more  he  saw  the  withering  of  his  own  youth, 
the  younger  the  world  appeared  to  him.  At  this  season, 
where  would  he  be?  On  what  waters  would  he  be  sail- 
ing ?  Where  would  he  be  working  ?  What  a  life  this,  if 
he  could  call  it  life ! 

His  chums  did  not  bother  him,  but  they  tried  to  cheer 
him  up.  They  always  told  him  that  his  leg  would 
straighten  out  with  time.  Since  he  would  not  listen  to 
any  suggestion  about  any  learned  doctors  from  Athens, 
they  began  speaking  about  the  quack  doctors  of  the 
village,  the  medicine  men  who  could  cure  every  kind  of 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  191 

disease  with  their  quack  medicines.  As  always  happens, 
each  one  of  them  would  recall  some  story  about  a  sick 
man  given  up  by  the  doctor  and  saved  by  a  practical 
medicine  man.  Then  young  and  old  fishermen,  skippers, 
merchandise  men,  official  men,  scribes,  the  schoolmaster, 
the  priest,  and  even  the  mayor,  all  who  came  to  see 
Metros  advised  him  to  be  patient,  and  to  keep  away 
from  doctors.  After  all,  the  practical  medicine  men 
could  do  the  work. 

One  day  during  the  first  fortnight  of  August*  Yan- 
nakos  Tamanamas  came  running  in.  A  famous  medi- 
cine man  had  come  from  the  village  of  Lygaria.  His 
name  was  Kopanitsas.  He  had  been  invited  to  Meletes' 
home  to  cure  his  cancer.  He  was  renowned  in  all 
Roumelef  and  even  farther  throughout  half  of  the 
Moreas.  As  soon  as  the  village  folk  heard  of  it,  they 
turned  out  in  crowds  to  see  him.  He  knew  every  disease 
and  could  cure  them  all.  An  excellent  surgeon !  Every- 
one whom  Yannakos  asked  about  him  told  him  Kopa- 
nitsas worked  miracles.  Why  not  bring  him  to  see 
Metros!    What  could  they  lose? 

With  the  grief  that  burdened  his  heart,  Metros  had 
gradually  convinced  all  those  who  loved  him  that  the 
worse  evil  was  not  the  pain  of  his  leg  but  the  fact  of 
his  lameness.    His  friends  felt  they  should  try  anything 

*  This  is  a  period  of  strict  fasting  in  preparation  for  the  fes- 
tival of  the  Ascension  of  the  Virgin  on  Aug.  15th. 

fTerm  applied  vaguely  to  ancient  Sterea  Hellas,  especially  to 
Aetolia  and  Acarnania. 


192  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

to  avoid  snch  a  misfortune.  Thus  in  the  end  they  called 
in  Kopanitsas.  The  sick  man  wanted  him,  the  mother 
wanted  him,  the  friends  and  all  the  relatives  of  Metros 
wanted  him,  and  everybody  they  consulted  said,  *'call 
him!" 

A  white-kilted  peasant,  he  was,  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  tall  and  thin.  He  had  a  big  nose  and  a  face  on 
which  hair  could  not  grow.  At  first  sight  of  him,  the 
sick  man  did  not  like  him,  but  what  could  he  do? 

Kopanitsas  had  only  one  eye  that  looked  as  big  as  two 
under  the  blackness  of  his  bushy  eyebrows.  As  he  stepped 
into  the  house  he  put  on  such  airs  of  importance!  He 
looked  at  Metros'  leg,  he  clasped  it,  turned  it. 

"I'll  cure  it,"  he  declared.  "I  will  do  it  my  own 
way." 

"May  God  help  your  hands,  doctor." 

"Let  us  wait  three  or  four  days.  We  must  go  to- 
wards the  light  of  the  moon,  and  these  are  thin  days. 
We'll  find  the  lucky  day  though.  You  must  know  there 
are  some  days  when  you  could  bring  a  great  plague  on  a 
man;  you  might  even  kill  him  if  you  should  as  much 
as  take  a  little  blood  from  him.  Today  is  the  thirteenth 
of  the  month.    We'll  see  about  it  on  the  sixteenth." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  widow  and  prescribed: 

"Five  drams  of  mustard,  ten  drams  of  gum,  eight 
drams  of  rhubarb,  five  drams  of  frankincense,  two  drams 
of  pepper-root,  two  drams  of  cinnamon.  Pound  them 
together.    Take  an  oka  of  honey,  skim  it,  boil  the  other 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  193 

things  with  it  and  then  stir  them  well  and  let  him  cat 
it  regularly.  This  is  a  very  nourishing  compound. 
With  it  he  can  stand  anything,  and  he  needs  strength." 

From  that  day  to  the  sixteenth  he  made  himself  per- 
fectly at  home.  Nor  would  they  let  him  leave  the  house 
at  all.  They  thought  it  their  duty  to  please  him  in  every 
possible  way.  Of  course,  the  medicine-man  did  not  par- 
ticularly care  to  go  round  the  public  kitchens  of  Sea 
Village  or  spend  his  nights  in  its  inns.  He  was  cer- 
tainly glib  in  relating  the  wonders  of  his  medical  power. 
Yannakos  Tarnanamas,  Markos  Kaninias,  and  Taria 
Terela  never  left  his  side  and  listened  to  him  with  open 
mouths. 

At  last  dawned  the  day  they  awaited  with  beating 
hearts.  On  the  sixteenth  of  the  vintage  month,  while 
the  must  was  beginning  to  flow  from  the  wine-presses, 
and  the  first  rains  were  falling,  when  the  last  swallows 
were  flying  towards  the  south  and  the  last  grape-clusters 
were  being  gathered,  Kopanitsas  turned  to  Metros. 

''Courage  now!  You  will  feel  a  little  pain  and  then 
all  will  be  well." 

**Pain  I  can  stand,  doctor;  only  my  leg.  ..." 

Kopanitsas  made  a  sign  to  Markos  Kaninias  and  the 
other  two. 

"You  must  hold  him  pretty  fast,  you  understand? 
Lady,  have  you  got  that  place  ready?" 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  they  spread  blankets  and 
quilts,  and  on  them  they  laid  Metros. 


194  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

**l8  the  raki  ready?    There  it  is,  drink  it,  Metros!" 

Metros  drank  about  fifty  drams  of  it. 

**Good  for  you,  old  lion!" 

Then  Kopanitsas  laid  Metros  on  his  back  and,  lift- 
ing the  right  leg,  the  one  that  had  been  hurt,  he  placed 
it  over  his  left  shoulder ;  then  he  seized  the  left  leg  and 
placed  it  over  his  right  shoulder.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
he  kicked — ^yes,  he  kicked  hard  against  the  suffering 
leg.  A  "crack!"  was  heard  as  of  something  breaking, 
and  a  groan,  a  lion's  groan  from  the  tortured  man. 
The  house  was  shaken.  All  three  of  them  could  not 
hold  him  the  way  he  shook  and  writhed. 

"Christ  and  the  Holy  Virgin  help  us!"  cried  the 
widow  of  Demos. 

"Don't  lose  heart,  Metros,"  urged  the  other. 

"You  have  killed  me!    Oh!"  Metros  groaned. 

"Now  you  are  all  right!  Within  a  fortnight  you 
will  be  on  your  feet  again!"  said  Kopanitsas,  and  turned 
again  to  the  widow  to  give  his  orders  as  fast  as  he 
could. 

"Pound  lead,  soak  it  in  vinegar  for  two  days,  then 
burn  it  well  with  sulphur  till  it  is  ashes.  Mix  these 
ashes  with  red  earth,  wax,  incense,  gum,  and  green  oil, 
and  put  this  ointment  on  his  leg  every  day,  morning 
and  night." 

He  said  no  other  word  and  he  gave  no  more  orders. 
His  mule  was  waiting  outside  of  the  house.  He  slipped 
into  his  purse  the  two  twenty-five  drachma  bills  which 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  195 

he  was  to  have  according  to  the  agreement,  said  good- 
bye to  the  sick  man  and  to  the  others  and  off  he  went. 
No  one  ever  saw  him  again. 

From  that  day  Metros  Roumeliotes  saw  no  improve- 
ment. The  fourteen  days  went  by,  but  he  had  not  left 
his  bed  nor  was  he  ever  able  to  leave  it.  His  leg  became 
inflamed  and  the  sore  became  worse  and  worse.  Metros 
lay  down  like  a  paralytic  man,  pining  and  wearing  away 
with  pain. 

Two  months  went  by.  The  winter  set  in.  Moss  cov- 
ered the  old  walls ;  a  leaden  sky  lay  heavy  on  the  heart, 
and  the  damp  south  wind  penetrated  into  the  bones. 
No  hope  for  the  sick  man! 

It  so  happened  that  another  medicine  man  came 
through  the  Village  by  the  Sea  that  winter.  This  time  the 
news  was  brought  in  by  Markos  Kaninias.  He  had  once 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  quacks  and  it  seemed  to  be  his 
fate  not  to  be  able  to  escape  them.  In  the  midst  of 
the  black  ashes  of  grief  there  comes  sometimes  some 
light  breath  and  the  spark  of  hope  flies  up  from  the 
ashes.  What?  Another  doctor  had  come?  The  whole 
house  around  the  sick  man  was  thrilled.  Let  us  try 
him,  too! 

He,  too,  was  a  surgeon.  He  had  come  from  Moreas 
and  his  name  was  Kouzounopoulos.  He  appeared 
rather  cloudy.  He  had  come  to  look  after  some  of  his 
own  affairs  and  was  in  a  hurry.  It  was  not  to  his 
interest  to  stay  for  one  patient  only.  To  see  him  just  once 


196  MODEEN   GREEK   STORIES 

could  come  to  no  good.  He  would  have  to  make  a  spe- 
cial job  of  it  and  to  put  him  through  a  regular  cure. 
Months  had  to  pass,  time  and  patience  were  needed.  Do 
they  have  enough  coin  to  pay  him?  If  they  had,  all 
would  be  well,  otherwise  he  could  say  nothing  more. 

Metros'  mother  and  inseparable  friends  made  their 
decision.  They  put  together  what  they  had  and  what 
they  had  not,  sold  here  and  borrowed  there,  took  out 
their  savings,  and  started  contributions.  All  the  village 
folks  were  generous  for  unfortunate  Metros  and  so  they 
said  to  Kouzounopoulos : 

"We  will  give  you  five  hundred  drachmas.  But 
you'll  have  to  cure  him  first.  We  will  trust  the  amount 
to  another's  hands.  You  will  receive  it  from  our  priest 
Thymios. ' ' 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  took  his  throne  in  the  sick 
man's  home. 

He  started  giving  his  patient  all  kinds  of  mixtures  to 
drink  and  pestered  his  leg  with  cupping  glasses  and 
plasters  and  ointments.  The  sores  broke  and  the  pus 
ran,  and  the  wound  spread  while  he  filled  it  with  lint 
and  changed  it  every  day  and  cut  it  and  squeezed  it 
every  dawn.  For  fifty  days  he  was  abusing  the  suffer- 
ing man  in  this  manner  and  for  fifty  days  he  ate  and 
drank  and  slept  in  his  house  at  the  widow's  expense.  To 
all  who  asked  him,  he  would  say  "the  man  is  getting 
better  and  better."  At  the  end  he  wanted  about  fifty 
drachmas. 


A   MAN'S    DEATH  197 

"He  is  getting  better  and  better!" 

So  he  took  the  money  and  no  one  saw  him  again. 


Ill 


The  sick  nian  was  getting  worse  and  worse  every  day 
and  every  hour.  At  last  a  doctor  appeared  again  in 
the'  house,  not  the  quack  from  Lygaria  nor  the  other 
from  Moreas,  but  the  real  doctor  of  the  Sea  Village, 
the  man  who  had  treated  him  first.  Again  they  fell 
at  his  feet.  When  the  doctor  saw  his  patient,  seven 
or  eight  months  since  he  had  left  him,  he  took  so  much 
pity  on  him  that  he  forgot  to  be  angry  and  to  scold 
in  his  usual  way.  He  was  almost  ready  to  cry  but 
no  tears  would  come  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Still  in  bed?"  he  asked.  "You  must  have  done 
something  to  it;  you  would  never  never  listen  to  me, 
hard  heads!    Hadn't  I  told  you  not  to  move  your  leg?" 

He  looked  at  the  leg,  lookfd  at  it  again,  and  when 
he  saw  him  speechless  and  vv^orn  out,  he  said  a  few 
more  words. 

"Well,  you  will  be  all  right,  you  will  be  cured." 

But  to  his  mother  and  to  the  other  women  who  were 
taking  eare  of  him,  he  said  in  plain  hard  words: 

"Impossible  to  cure  him.  Those  charlatans  you 
brought  in  have  killed  the  man.  The  nerves  are  cut 
and  knotted.  Gangrene  has  set  in  and  has  gone  very 
deep.    He  cannot  be  saved  unless  he  loses  his  leg.    Take 


198  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

hint,  to  Athens  to  a  surgeon  as  soon  as  you  can  before 
it  is  too  late," 

Three  days  and  three  nights  the  widow  of  Demos,  her 
two  brothers,  the  touring  tradesman  and  the  black- 
smith, Markos  Kaninias,  Yannakos  Tarnanamas  and 
Taria  Terela,  Father  Thymios,  the  schoolmaster  and  the 
mayor  were  trying  to  make  him  agree  to  it.  For 
three  days  and  three  nights  he  listened  to  every 
word  and  always  gave  the  same  answer,  the  same  and 
unchanged : 

"Better  death  than  walking  on  a  single  leg.'* 

The  truth  was  that  the  mayor  and  schoolmaster,  Taria 
Tarela,  Yannakos  Tarnanamas  and  Markos  Kaninias, 
touring  tradesman  and  blacksmith,  even  the  widow  of 
Demos,  despaired  about  him.  They  had  no  faith  in 
man's  art.  It  was  his  fate,  they  said,  and  they  were 
ready  to  abide  by  God's  will.  They  did  not  want  to  an- 
noy him  too  much,  nor  try  to  deceive  him,  nor  attempt  to 
take  him  to  Athens  by  force.  After  all,  let  us  not  hide 
the  truth,  they  all  shuddered  most  at  the  thought  of 
Metros  with  one  leg.  What  difference  did  it  make 
whether  he  was  dead  or  crippled  for  life?  They  could 
not  very  well  distinguish  the  one  evil  from  the  other. 

As  for  the  widow  of  Demos,  for  months  now  she  had 
few  words  and  much  thought.  One  idea  had  gradually 
grown  and  spread  in  her  until  it  flooded  her  mind.  Her 
child  had  been  bewitched.  His  sickness  was  no  God- 
sent  sickness,  his  trouble  was  the  work  of  man.    "This 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  199 

is  no  chance,"  she  thought,  "but  witchcraft,  hell's 
work. '  * 

Morfo's  mother,  whose  name  was  Garoufalia,  could 
tell  fortunes  from  the  cards  and  could  conjure  the  air- 
spirits.  She  must  have  east  the  evil  eye  on  the  boy. 
She  wanted  to  make  him  mad  for  her  own  daughter 
and  when  she  saw  her  victim  escape  from  her  hand,  she 
must  have  decided  to  put  him  out  of  the  way.  Argyro 
must  be  right  about  what  she  had  told  her  once.  One 
evening  this  woman  Argyro,  while  she  was  returning 
home  from  the  village  fountain  with  her  barrel  of  water, 
saw  two  other  women  half-covered  in  front  of  the 
widow's  house.  In  the  light  of  the  moon  she  had  seen 
the  taller  one  threaten  with  her  hand  stretched  towards 
the  house  and  had  heard  the  other,  the  short  one,  cry 
with  a  shrill  voice:  "I  have  you  now!"  Argyro  recog- 
nized them  as  Garoufalia  and  Morfo. 

The  wife  of  Lampros,  too,  had  told  her  so,  and  the 
wife  of  Doroyannis,  and  the  daughter  of  Karasebdas, 
and  Marigo,  the  divorced  woman.  The  whole  village 
was  full  with  the  din  of  it;  it  was  no  more  a  secret. 
Garoufalia  had  taken  it  on  her  to  put  Metros  out  of 
the  way  with  her  witchcraft  so  that  he  might  not  see 
a  better  day.  Another  rumor  had  it  that  Garoufalia 
had  gone  out  towards  Arta  and  met  some  Turkish  women 
who  gave  her  some  signs.  Then  that  sow,  Morfo,  since 
the  day  of  Metros'  betrothal  at  Melissi,  had  M^ritten  his 
name  among  the  dead  and  had  masses  celebrated  on  him 


200  MODEEN   GREEK   STORIES 

as  a  dead  man,  and  had  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  dead 
practiced  on  him;  the  ceremony  of  the  third  day  after 
death,  and  of  the  ninth,  and  of  the  fortieth,  and  of  the 
third  month,  and  of  the  sixth  month,  and  of  the  first 
year.  Her  mother's  daughter!  These  charms  certainly 
never  fail.  No  man  escapes  if  they  are  practiced  on  him. 
Oh,  that  Morf  o,  the  filthy  beast ! 

Once  her  mother  had  sent  a  wedding  message  to  the 
widow  of  Demos,  a  message  for  Metros.  But  the  widow 
had  said  to  the  woman  messenger:  *'I  have  brought 
up  my  boy  working  at  the  loom  and  going  through  a 
widow's  suffering,  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year; 
and  now  that  I  begin  to  see  some  good  from  him,  must 
I  see  him  married  so  young,  a  boy  of  twenty-eight  ?  And 
with  whom?    Morfo!" 

Again  Garoufalia  had  sent  another  messenger,  but 
the  widow  answered  again : 

"I  wash  my  hands;  if  he  wants  her,  let  him  take 
her ;  but  let  me  not  see  him  in  my  house  again ! ' ' 

After  a  little  while,  Metros  had  exchanged  rings  with 
Phroso,  the  daughter  of  Sebdas. 

So  the  widow  of  Demos  had  decided  to  drop  all  doc- 
tors and  their  medicines,  and  instead  of  hurrying  to 
Athens  with  her  child,  she,  one  morning,  left  him  in 
bed  and  set  sail  for  Patras.  She  went  to  see  an  old 
witch  who  lived  there  and  who  was  famous  throughout 
the  whole  of  Greece.  She  could  prophesy  about  love  and 
hate,  about  the  world  above  and  the  world  below,  about 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  201 

life  and  death.  She  could  undo  a  charm  and  cure  the 
evil  eye.  She  was  acquainted  with  the  fairies  and  could 
speak  with  the  spirits.  The  widow  found  her  in  the 
upper  town  in  a  little  hut  stooping  over  copper  horse- 
shoes, wolves'  teeth,  cards,  bones,  embalmed  ravens, 
magic  herbs,  and  countless  other  things.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  the  widow  of  Demos,  she  shook  her  white  head  cov- 
ered with  a  scarf  and  said:  *'I  know  why  you  come; 
for  your  child.  Have  you  brought  any  signs  with 
you?" 

The  widow  of  Demos,  who  had  come  well  advised,  pro- 
duced the  signs  from  her  son's  hair. 

''Good.     Come  tomorrow  for  the  answer." 

At  dawn  she  went  back  and  heard  from  the  witch's 
mouth : 

"Impossible  to  cure  him.  They  have  practiced  a  ter- 
rible charm  on  him.  The  hour  that  he  fell  and  hurt 
himself, — just  before  he  fell — twelve  Armenian  women 
were  eating  and  making  merry.  He  stepped  on  their 
table" — at  this  she  showed  her  a  lemon  rind — "one  of 
them,  as  she  looked  on  him,  envied  him  and  so  she 
pushed  him,  threw  him  down  and  broke  him.  The  Ar- 
menian women  look  with  evil  eyes  on  him — God  preserve 
us  from  such  spirits — Your  child  has  been  charmed  for 
a  long  time  and  his  name  has  been  written  among  the 
dead!" 

She  came  back  to  the  village  bringing  the  old  witch's 
herbs  but  not  her  words.    Her  son  had  been  expecting 


202  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

her  like  a  swallow  in  March.  Of  doctors  he  would  hear 
nothing,  but  he  did  believe  in  witchcraft.  For  the  same 
reason,  a  little  time  afterwards,  when  they  brought  him 
another  witch  from  Melissi,  a  Jewess,  to  see  him,  Metros, 
on  his  bed,  received  her  just  as  a  sailing  captain  would 
receive  a  favorite  breeze.  His  eyes  gleamed  in  his  pale 
face  and  a  smile,  like  a  star  in  a  stormy  sky,  sweetened 
his  lips.  No  one  else  had  seen  him  smile  like  that  ex- 
cept his  sweetheart  Phroso,  just  once.  The  Jewess  had 
come  to  Melissi  from  Yannena  only  within  a  few  days. 
She  had  eloped  with  a  man  from  Yannena  who  brought 
her  to  the  village.  There  she  was  baptized  and  they 
were  married.  So  she  was  a  lover,  a  new  convert,  a  new 
bride,  and  a  witch  at  the  same  time !  A  brunette  with  a 
clear  skin,  nimble,  shapely,  sweet-spoken.  Her  eyes  did 
not  need  any  witchcraft.  She  bent  over  him  and  looked 
at  him  so  softly  and  pitifully  that  Metros  thought  his 
torments  had  come  to  an  end  and  that  nothing  was  left 
now  but  that  she  would  take  him  by  the  hand  and  tell 
him:  "Get  up  and  walk!"  and  then  he  would  get  up 
and  walk.  He  had  faith  in  witchcraft,  and  beauty  was 
bewitching  to  him. 

The  Jewess  asked  for  his  right  boot.  She  took  it  and 
threw  something  in  it,  something  like  mercury,  and 
ordered  them  to  place  it  out  on  the  roof  through  the 
night. 

"Whatever  you  hear  tonight, '^  she  said,  "you  must 
not  speak.'* 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  203 

Then  she  turned  to  the  others  in  the  house: 

"Just  see  how  the  boy  suffers  from  the  spell!  The 
fairies  have  ruined  the  poor  child." 

She,  too,  ordered  various  herbs  which  should  be  boiled 
in  wine  for  him  to  drink. 

At  night  they  went  to  sleep.  It  was  still  winter  but 
the  night  was  like  a  night  in  spring,  with  a  sky  full  of 
stars.  The  widow  alone  kept  awake  for  Metros.  She 
always  lay  by  his  side  and  many  nights  she  spent  with- 
out lying  down  at  all.  But  on  that  night,  had  they  all 
the  health  and  happiness  in  the  world,  neither  mother 
nor  son  could  have  closed  their  eyes.  They  remembered 
the  words  of  the  Jewess :  ' '  Whatever  you  hear  tonight 
you  must  not  speak!" 

Both  were  troubled  with  the  same  fear  and  warmed 
with  the  same  hope.  In  the  wide  room,  the  shrine  lamp 
was  sending  out  its  dim  light  and  one  could  not  see  in 
the  lighted  space  anything  but  the  little  shrine  with 
its  smoke-darkened  Christ  and  silver-smoked  St.  Nich- 
olas and,  thrown  aside  in  a  corner,  a  fog-horn  and  an 
oar. 

Metros  turned  his  sleepless  eyes  from  the  shrine-lamp 
to  the  pictures  and  thence  to  the  comer  as  if  he  was 
expecting  something  to  come  out  even  from  the  things 
he  could  see  in  the  dark,  something  mysterious  and  un- 
hoped for.  In  the  dim  light,  the  shadow  that  was  pro- 
jected from  Christ's  image  and  the  silver  gleam  of  St. 
Nicholas  and  the  length  of  the  oar  and  the  shape  of 


204  MODERN   GEEEK   STORIES 

the  fog-horn  were  mingling  with  each  other  and  taking 
fantastic  shapes,  and  becoming  weird  shadows  and  forms 
which  shook  as  if  they  were  talking  with  each  other. 
Strange  creatures  they  seemed,  which,  if  one  could  only 
uncover,  would  manifest  themselves  as  fairies  and  fates 
and  souls  and  who  knows  what  else ! 

The  poor  man  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart  and  his 
mind  was  filled  with  stories  of  another  world  and  tales 
of  old  times.  Like  a  condemned  man  he  was  waiting 
to  see  whether  they  would  behead  him  or  give  him  grace. 
At  midnight,  while  it  seemed  like  balmy  springtime 
and  the  sky  was  full  of  stars  and  everything  was  per- 
fectly still,  all  of  a  sudden  they  heard  a  great  racket 
breaking  out  on  the  tiles  of  the  roof,  like  the  falling 
of  pebbles.  It  seemed  as  if  people  were  stoning  the 
house  or  as  if  heavy  hail  was  descending  on  the  roof 
from  the  sky.  They  heard  whistling  and  murmuring 
voices.  The  floor  shook,  the  windows  moaned,  the  doors 
creaked,  strange  shrine  lamps  and  sacred  pictures,  and 
light  and  shadows  danced  before  the  boy's  eyes.  His 
breathing  stopped.  He  could  not  utter  a  word  nor  did 
he  want  to.  He  remembered  the  Jewess'  warning  and 
was  afraid  that  the  fairies  might  take  his  speech  away. 
With  the  long  staff  which  he  kept  by  his  side,  he  shook 
his  mother  to  wake  her  so  that  she  might  not  miss  what 
was  going  on ;  and  the  mother,  without  speaking,  tapped 
at  the  floor  to  show  him  that  she  was  awake  and  under- 
stood.    From  that  moment  mother  and  son  lay  wait- 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  205 

mg,  motionless  and  speechless.  The  noise  had  ceased 
and  stillness  had  come  again;  but  they  continued  to 
hear  whistling  and  falling  stones  and  murmurs  of  voices 
until  daybreak. 

At  daybreak  the  Jewess  appeared  again.  They  told 
her  what  had  happened  in  the  night.  She  looked  for 
the  boot  which  had  been  placed  for  the  night  on  the 
tiles  of  the  roof,  and  examined  it  from  all  sides ;  then 
she  thought  for  a  little  while,  smiled  sweetly  at  Metros, 
and  took  the  widow  apart  to  tell  her: 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?  The  boy  is  bewitched.  It  is  im- 
possible to  cure  him.  If  he  had  taken  up  witchcraft 
from  the  start  and  had  not  tangled  himself  up  with 
doctors  he  would  have  been  saved.    This  is  the  truth ! ' ' 


IV 


The  less  comfort  they  received  from  the  witches  the 
more  they  fastened  their  hopes  on  their  witchcraft.  The 
widow  of  Demos  with  her  brothers,  the  touring  trades- 
man and  the  blacksmith,  made  a  great  last  plan.  A 
sorcerer  lived  in  Epaktos.  He  could  read  Solomon's 
"Witchcraft  Book.  That  was  no  mean  thing.  From  that 
book  he  could  learn  how  to  cure  the  worst  diseases.  He 
could  exorcise  fiends,  close  them  in  wine-skins  and  bind 
them  in  clay  jars  because  he  had  Solomon's  seal,  and 
could  stamp  them  with  it.     He  knew  where  the  four- 


206  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

leaf  clover  grew  and  with  it  he  could  make  the  spirits 
his  subjects.  So  they  sent  Taria  Terela  to  Epaktos  with 
money,  letters,  tokens  and  a  thousand  prayers.  The 
sorcerer  would  say  the  last  word.  They  were  sure  of 
that.     From  nobody  else  could  they  hope  anything. 

Taria  Terela  started  on  a  fishing  boat  for  Epaktos. 
He  arrived  in  the  evening,  and  without  stopping  to 
take  his  breath  or  rest,  without  saying  a  word  to  any- 
body, asking  and  searching,  he  found  his  way  to  the 
sorcerer's  house  the  same  evening.  The  sorcerer  proved 
to  be  a  pale  fellow  in  rags  with  long  black  beard.  He 
spoke  very  low  and  never  laughed.  Taria  Terela  put  a 
ten-drachma  bill  in  his  hand  and  said : 

"To  treat  a  sick  man  and  to  cure  him." 

The  sorcerer  asked  for  a  sign,  hairs  from  Metros' 
head,   and  answered  immediately: 

"Be  here  tomorrow  morning  at  four,  at  salepi*  time." 

In  the  morning,  at  four,  at  salepi  time,  the  sorcerer 
was  speaking  again  to  Metros'  companion: 

"Metros  is  the  name  of  the  sick  man;  he  lives  in  the 
Village  by  the  Sea;  his  house  is  opposite  the  church. 
His  mother  is  a  widow  and  they  call  her  Demaina.  ..." 

Taria  Terela  gazed  and  shuddered  with  astonishment. 
He  had  not  told  him  anything  nor  had  he  spoken  with 
anyone  in  Epaktos.  Yet  the  sorcerer  knew  everything. 
He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

♦A  hot  popular  drink  sold  by  peddlers  in  the  streets  very 
early  in  the  morning.     It  is  prepared  on  the  spot 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  207 

The  sorcerer  then  spoke  faster  and  faster. 

**Put  on  your  mourning  clothes  from  now  on.  It  is 
more  than  impossible  for  him  to  improve.  I  assembled 
all  the  spirits  and  commanded  all  the  fairies,  and  every- 
one said  'what  is  to  be  shall  be!  What  is  written  shall 
not  be  unwritten ! '  If  Fate  has  it  on  her  paper,  an  axe 
cannot  chop  it  off.  Love  charms  have  ruined  him.  Bad 
spirits  have  touched  him.    Brother,  give  him  up." 

The  winter,  too,  went  by.  The  snow  on  Mt.  Zygos 
melted  and  only  its  peak  was  still  seen  wrapped  in  thin 
white  jasmine.  In  Misocampos  the  almonds  were  blos- 
soming and  in  the  houses  of  the  Village  by  the  Sea  in 
every  little  piazza  and  on  every  roof,  in  all  kinds  of  pots 
and  boxes  the  fragrant  green  of  royal  mint  and  spear- 
mint and  rosemary  were  seen  and  roses  and  pinks  and 
narcissus  and  violets  were  blossoming.  Even  the  poorest 
house  was  rich  in  fragrant  plants;  for  the  girls  of  the 
village,  with  their  thick  tresses  of  hair  and  their  supple 
little  bodies  took  particular  pride  at  springtime  in 
watering  and  ordering  their  flowers.  Under  the  bal- 
conies and  the  eaves,  in  doors  and  windows  and  between 
the  flower  pots,  the  swallows  were  building  their  nests. 
How  easily  they  found  a  place  everywhere  to  nestle.  The 
humbler  their  nest  the  richer  and  more  carefree  was 
the  life  of  the  little  swallows.  One  might  think  they, 
too,  felt  so. 

In  the  home  of  Metros  Roumeliotes  no  flower  blos- 
somed this  year.    Two  or  three  flower-pots  stood  on  the 


208  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

balcony,  hot  and  dry  as  if  a  black  man 's  foot  had  stepped 
on  them.  In  the  mind  of  the  widow  of  Demos,  flowers 
could  not  displace  her  cares.  During  the  past  winter 
the  wind  and  the  storms  had  blown  down  the  flower 
pots  adorning  the  front  of  the  house  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  with  the  boards  which  were  supporting  them, 
and,  together  with  them,  the  nests  which  were  waiting 
for  the  return  of  the  swallows.  No  one  had  thought 
about  putting  them  up  again;  when  spring  came  and 
the  little  birds  returned,  they  did  not  stop  at  the  house 
but  fled  from  the  place  of  ruin,  beating  their  wings 
restlessly. 

The  days,  of  the  carnival  had  gone  by  and  the  Great 
Lent  was  now  near  its  end.  The  Passion  Week  had  come 
again.  April,  young  and  fresh,  made  life  new  and 
brought  with  it  new  strength  for  life's  struggle.  The 
soul  felt  new  joys.  New  cares  sprang  up  in  one's  mind. 
Like  flowers,  love  blossomed.  The  open  chapels  were 
fragrant  with  incense,  and  the  hearts  were  fllled  with 
the  fragrance  of  hope.  On  such  a  season,  the  care- 
worn, too,  feels  some  sweetness ;  the  despairing  man  takes 
a  new  impulse;  and  even  the  dying  man  clings  closer 
to  life  and  tries  to  sell  it  at  the  highest  possible  price. 

Metros  could  no  longer  be  saved.  His  days  were  num- 
bered. Doctors  and  drugs,  witches  and  witchcraft,  all 
in  vain.  Gangrene  set  in.  The  poison  spread  constantly 
in  his  blood.  He  lay  speechless  and  motionless  and  only 
his  eyes  spoke,  moving  swiftly  and  gleaming  with  light 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  209 

as  if  they  were  watching  for  Charon's  coming  to  fight 
with  him.  The  poor  widow  of  Demos  became  unrecog- 
nizable with  sleeplessness  and  grief,  a  complete  ruin. 
Markos  Kaninias,  Yannakos  Tarnanamas,  and  Taria 
Terela  neither  spoke  nor  moved  from  his  side.  On  Good 
Thursday  they  brought  Father  Thymios  with  the  Holy 
Sacrament. 

Good  Friday  came  without  the  black  sky  of  other 
years.  It  was  all  azure  and  light.  With  the  first  ray 
of  light  that  slipped  through  a  crack  down  to  Metros' 
bed,  Metros  shivered  and  called  out  with  a  loud 
voice : 

"Mother,  I  want  sunlight  and  air;  open  the  win- 
dow!" 

The  window  was  opened  and  the  sun  flooded  the  dark 
and  gloomy  house.  Like  a  festival,  light  spread  on  the 
floor,  on  the  walls,  on  everything.  There  was  light  all 
around  the  sick  man  and  one  might  have  thought  light 
was  the  only  healer,  the  only  sorcerer.  The  morning 
breeze  that  came  in  hurriedly  from  the  opened  window 
stirred  his  long  and  uncombed  hair.  Through  the  same 
window,  his  eyes  wandered  straight  towards  the  peace- 
ful waters  of  the  Sea  Village,  the  same  waters  that 
change  a  thousand  colors  like  a  thousand  dreams  at 
every  kiss  of  the  sun  from  morning  to  dusk.  Only  Au- 
gust had  not  given  them  the  mystic  beauty  that  April 
gave  them  now,  a  beauty  made  up  of  all  the  breaths  and 
longings  of  life. 


210  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

At  one  end  of  the  mole  he  caught  sight  of  a  small 
ship,  his  own  ship,  neglected  there  without  sail  or  rig. 
As  if  the  sun  had  lighted  his  mind  deeper  than  his  own 
house,  he  felt  that  his  last  hour  had  come,  that  Charon 
had  drawn  near  and  that  he  should  deliver  himself 
like  a  brave  man.  The  sorcerer  Sun  charmed  him  and 
made  him  drunk  with  a  strange  new  wine,  a  wine  made 
up  of  life  and  of  death. 

"A  looking  glass,  Mother;  a  looking  glass!" 

Suddenly  the  care  for  his  appearance  flamed  in  him; 
he  wished  to  prepare  his  manhood  for  the  journey  t» 
the  world  below.  He  fancied  that  he  was  getting  ready 
to  go  to  St.  Elijah's  festival  on  the  slopes  of  Mt.  Zygos, 
His  mother,  who  had  resigned  herself  to  her  misfor- 
tunes, hearing  without  feeling  and  feeling  without 
thinking,  brought  him  the  looking  glass.  He  took  it 
and  looked  at  himself;  but  not  so  much  at  himself  as 
at  a  thousand  memories  and  a  thousand  scenes  from  his 
childhood  days  to  the  present.  Scenes  and  memories, 
long  buried  in  his  mind,  now  were  remembered  for  the 
last  time,  and  he  saw  them  with  his  faded  eyes  rise  up 
fluttering  in  the  glass  like  little  birds  with  swift  wings. 
It  seemed  that  this  looking  glass  was  like  that  magic 
one  of  the  famous  legend  in  which  one  could  see  all  dis- 
tant things  of  the  past  and  all  distant  things  of  the 
future. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  saw  nothing  in  the  mir- 
ror but  his  very  pale  face  and  his  worn-out  body;  and 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  211 

with  the  unspeakable  agony  of  tormented  manhood  he 
said: 

''Ah!  Beautiful  youth  that  the  earth  will  swal- 
low!" 

With  the  words  "beautiful  youth,"  he  felt  for  the 
last  time  the  desire  of  youth  for  beauty  and  looks,  the 
care  that  clings  to  men  even  in  Charon's  clasp.  So  he 
began  combing  his  hair,  his  curly,  thick,  long  hair  that 
seemed  to  have  drawn  all  the  freshness  and  strength 
of  the  body,  and,  for  that  reason,  had  grown  so  thick 
and  long.  He  trimmed  his  moustache  as  if  he  were  get- 
ting ready  for  another  betrothal.  "When  he  had  done 
dressing  himself,  as  if  a  sudden  light  had  come  to  his 
mind,  he  said  to  his  mother: 

' '  Now,  my  poor  mother,  for  so  long  I  had  courage  and 
thought  I  was  not  going  to  die.  One  favor  I  would  ask 
of  you.     Let  me  hear  you  mourning  for  me." 

"Never!  My  child,  what  words  are  these?  Mourn 
lor  you?  Have  you  come  to  this?"  His  mother  stam- 
mered, beside  herself. 

"Ah!  and  again  ah!    Mourn  for  me,  Mother,  mourn! 

'Youth  turns  to  dust 
And  manhood  turns  to  grass. 
And  bodies  fair  are  earth  to  tread  upon!' 

Say  this,  Mother,  wherever  you  go." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while,  then  he  sat  up  suddenly 
and  said: 


212  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

*  *  I  don 't  want  to  die  alone.  Let  me  see  people  around 
me.  Open  the  door,  Mother,  and  let  the  people  come 
in." 

It  must  have  been  nearly  noon.  The  Sea  Village 
folks  were  just  coming  out  of  the  church.  Suddenly  to 
the  ears  of  the  people  who  were  leaving  St.  Nicholas' 
Church  and  of  those  who  were  just  passing  by — there 
was  much  going  and  coming  in  that  hour — to  the  ears 
of  all  those  people  came  a  slow,  hoai-se,  mournful  sound, 
so  mournful  that  it  cut  through  one's  heart,  and  made 
one's  hair  stand  on  end;  a  sound  that  seemed  now  like 
a  wild  beast's,  now  like  a  human  being's;  a  sound  that 
rose  and  feU  and  died  away  and  again  rose  and  shook 
the  air;  a  sound  that  was  something  like  speech,  and 
groan,  and  dirge,  and  complaint,  and  weeping,  and 
laughter,  and  curse  and  song,  the  song  of  a  frightened, 
maddened,  despairing  soul.  The  people  who  passed  by 
heard  the  sound,  stopped,  shuddered,  listened  eagerly, 
felt  the  meaning  of  it,  shook  their  heads  and  said  to 
one  another: 

"Mourning  song!    Who  is  dead?" 

Someone  pointed  to  the  house  of  the  widow  of  Demos 
and  said: 

"Don't  you  know?  It  is  from  Demaina's  home  the 
mourning  song  comes.    Metros,  the  good  boy,  is  dead!" 

Metros  dead!  Metros  that  fine  man  who  suffered  a 
whole  year's  torments  in  bed.  Metros  who  had  been 
hit  by  envy  and  jealousy  and  who  had  been  bound  with 


A  MAN'S   DEATH  213 

witchcraft,  had  now  met  an  unjust  death.  The  news 
fell  like  hail  on  the  Village  by  the  Sea.  Every  man  who 
heard  it  sighed  and  wrung  his  hands;  and  the  women 
pulled  their  cheeks  as  if  they  had  not  been  expecting  it 
for  so  many  months.  They  could  not  reconcile  them- 
selves to  it. 

"When  a  man  like  Metros  dies,  a  whole  life  dies  with 
him,  a  sun  goes  out!  Something  happened  then  that 
had  never  happened  in  the  village  before.  Everyone 
who  heard  the  news  told  it  to  the  next  man,  and  wherever 
they  stood,  and  however  they  were,  they  all  walked 
quickly  towards  Metros'  home.  "Where  had  all  that 
crowd  come  from  ?  Women  well  dressed  with  their  black 
scarfs;  women  in  ordinary  household  clothes  just  as 
they  were  in  their  homes;  men  of  all  sorts,  property 
owners  and  workmen  of  land  and  sea ;  children  held  by 
the  hand  and  children  hanging  on  their  mother's 
breasts.  All  the  church  people  came  there,  too.  One 
might  have  thought  Christ's  Passion  was  going  on  in 
that  house  and  the  Holy  Sepulchre  was  set  there.  Many 
were  still  holding  flowers  in  their  hands,  the  flowers 
from  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  one  might  think  they 
were  going  to  lay  them  on  the  dead  man's  bed  to  make 
his  last  sleep  fragrant  with  them  and  to  purify  his 
remains. 

The  house  was  seen  with  doors  and  windows  wide 
open.  The  noonday  sun  was  bathing  it  with  light.  If 
one  had  not  known  it,  if  one  had  not  heard  the  sound 


214  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

one  might  have  thought  not  that  Charon  had  come  that 
way  but  that  a  great  festival  was  taking  place.  No 
one  could  hold  that  crowd  back.  Those  who  had  come 
first  had  now  crossed  the  threshold,  climbed  the  stairs 
and  gone  straight  in,  filling  every  place  of  the  house. 
The  rest  were  waiting  outside;  and  more  were  coming 
still.  More  people  came  down  the  street  and  more  people 
lined  up  in  front  of  the  house.  Suddenly  again  those 
who  had  reached  the  house  first  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dows and  came  down  panting,  worn  out,  and  pale,  bring- 
ing other  news :  *  *  He  is  not  dead  yet,  not  dead.  He  is 
in  his  last  struggle.  He  demanded  that  they  should 
mourn  him  alive.  Did  you  hear  that?  Never  before 
did  such  a  thing  happen ! ' ' 

It  was  quite  true.  Those  who  came  into  the  house 
were  stunned.  Instead  of  the  dead  man  they  were  ex- 
pecting to  see  and  kiss,  they  looked  on  a  man  sitting 
on  his  bed  with  a  determined  face,  eyes  wide  open,  and 
ears  listening  eagerly.  He  seemed  like  a  young  horse 
impatient  to  run  over  the  plains,  like  a  man  who  was 
waiting  for  his  armor  to  enter  a  battle.  In  another  cor- 
ner the  widow  of  Demos  sat  huddled  together  and  mo- 
tionless vnth.  a  body  like  a  corpse,  without  life,  without 
tears.  All  her  life  had  turned  into  her  voice,  a  voice 
that  sounded  not  like  a  woman's — the  voice  of  despair. 
She  sang  to  a  tune  of  her  own  that  no  one  had  heard 
before,  and  said: 


A   MAN'S   DEATH  215 

"A  handsome  lad  is  struggling  with,  his  life; 
A  handsome  lad  is  dying ; 
Let  your  green  lamps  and  yellow  tapers  bum 
To  light  him  on  his  journey; 
To  light  the  handsome  lad  upon  his  path, 
To  the  dark  world  beyond, 
So  step  by  step  he  climbs  the  path  uphill, 
And  step  by  step  descends. ' ' 

Vasilo,  an  old  relative  of  hers,  could  not  stand  it  and 
spoke  to  her: 

"My  poor  Demaina,  the  world  has  never  seen  such 
a  thing,  to  lament  for  your  child  when  he  is  alive ! ' ' 

Instead  of  the  mother,  the  son  answered : 

' '  Never  mind,  I  want  her  to  mourn  for  me  now ! ' ' 

Then,  turning  to  his  little  newly-married  cousin  Lolo, 
who  was  kneeling  near  him  and  trying  to  hide  her  tears 
in  her  handkerchief,  he  said  with  a  commanding  look: 

"Lolo,  why  don't  you  lament?" 

The  cousin  answered  immediately  with  the  following 
dirge : 

'The  handsome  lad  met  on  his  path  a  worm, 
A  worm  who  spoke  and  asked  him: 
'Silver,  why  take  this  path  where  you'll  be  lost? 
Gold,  why  come  you  to  dimness? 

0  Silver  Bell,  why  do  you  come  this  way 

"Where  you  will  lose  your  song?'  " 


216  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

So  from  the  mother 's  lips  the  vnrge  was  echoed  on  the 
lips  of  the  other  women,  just  as  tears  bring  tears  and 
laughter  brings  laughter,  just  as  one  taper  lights  an- 
other taper,  and  just  as  sometimes  the  high  tide  of  the 
sea  spreads  over  the  village.  Among  the  mourning 
women,  others  came  with  wreaths  of  flowers  and  fresh 
bouquets,  while  others  were  busy  in  the  other  rooms  open- 
ing boxes  and  preparing  the  dead  man's  clothes  while  he 
was  still  breathing,  and  people  kept  constantly  coming 
and  going.  In  the  midst  of  all,  Yannakos  Tarnanana- 
mas,  Markos  Kaninias,  and  Taria  Terela,  worn  out  by 
sleeplessness  and  broken  down  by  suffering,  were  stand- 
ing with  eyes  fixed  on  nothing,  speaking  no  word. 
Across  the  street,  the  carpenter,  with  tearful  eyes,  was 
nailing  together  the  boards  of  the  coffin,  and  upstairs 
Vasilo  and  the  wife  of  Gyftoyannes  were  unfolding  the 
cloth  which  was  to  be  used  as  a  shroud.  On  a  table 
they  had  placed  a  cap  all  covered  with  gold  embroidery, 
the  last  gift  of  his  sweetheart  to  her  hapless  love  who 
was  leaving  her  forever.  With  that  cap  he  was  to  lie 
in  the  coffin. 

At  noon  the  fight  with  Charon  began  and  the  struggle 
lasted  the  whole  afternoon.  The  young  man  groaned 
deeply  and  shook  like  a  land  overtaken  by  a  fiendish 
earthquake.  During  the  struggle,  like  last  sparks  of 
life's  candle,  these  words  came  out  at  long  intervals: 

** Ah,  what  a  fate!  .  .  .  You're  wearing  white  kilts. 
...     Go  slow.  .    .    .     Don't  step  on  my  feet.   .    .    . 


A  MAN'S   DEATH  217 

Bah!  What  a  world  this!  .  .  .  Come!  Come.  .  .  . 
Mother.  .  .  .  Don't  choke  me.  .  .  .  Eoom!  Give  me 
room!  .  .  .  I  want  air!  .  .  .  Sweet  life.  .  .  .  Don't 
hide  the  snn  from  me.  .    .   .     Give  it  up ! " 

With  these  last  words,  he  surrendered  to  Death.  He 
died  before  the  eyes  of  the  people,  in  the  embrace  of 
the  whole  village,  like  a  poplar  cut  down  by  the  wood- 
cutter after  a  long  struggle  in  the  open  before  the  eyes 
of  the  entire  forest,  standing  by  helpless.  On  the  same 
instant  a  murmur  went  up  from  that  human  forest, 
spreading  from  the  deathbed  to  the  street,  a  murmun 
born  of  deep  sorrow  and  relief: 

"What  a  pity  for  such  a  m.an  to  die  so  untimely  I 
Glory  be  to  thee,  0  Lord,  for  bringing  him  to  rest ! ' ' 

At  the  same  time,  far  away  at  the  edge  of  the  sea 
one  could  see  from  the  dead  man's  house  the  sun  setting 
all  in  flames.  No  breath  stirred  the  calm  of  the  waters 
by  the  shore.  What  sweetness  was  there  in  nature! 
Land  and  sea  were  still,  so  that  they  might  not  disturb 
the  short-lived  sleep  of  the  eternal  God  or  the  eternal 
sleep  of  the  short-lived  man. 

At  the  same  time  those  who  were  in  the  wide  room, 
taking  care  of  the  dead  man  with  eyes  still  open,  saw 
something  strange.  The  old  widow  of  Demos,  who  liad 
been  kneeling  by  her  child's  bed  in  an  apathy  of  de- 
spair, without  a  tear  and  without  a  sound,  suddenly 
sprang  up  and  rushed  through  the  crowd  with  an  angry 
look,  like  a  wild  cat,  with  hair  dishevelled,  arms  and 


218  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

hands  ontstretclied  as  if  she  meant  to  strangle  someone. 

In  the  very  midst  of  the  house  a  young  girl  had 
slipped  like  a  snake  through  the  crowd,  unnoticed  by 
anyone,  and  stood  motionless  and  speechless  with  a  per- 
fectly calm  face  gazing  fixedly  toward  the  dead  man's 
bed.  Some  mystic  joy  shone  in  her  eyes  and  although 
she  did  not  open  her  mouth  a  faint  line  seemed  to  mark 
it  slightly — a  line  that  seemed  like  a  smile.  She  was 
not  tall  but  her  body  stood  erect;  and  her  face  looked 
more  beautiful  as  it  appeared  under  the  black  scarf 
that  covered  her  head.  The  old,  woman  rushed  towards 
her.    Murmurs  again  was  heard. 

"Bah!    The  filthy  one!    The  shameless  one!" 

"Did  you  see  her,  the  crazy  Morfo?" 

But  before  the  old  woman  could  seize  her,  Morfo  had 
disappeared  quickly  like  a  bad  dream  and  like  a  sweet 
temptation.  The  old  woman  stood  alone  trembling  and 
threatening,  with  her  hands  in  the  air;  and  before  she 
fell  senseless  on  the  floor,  she  cried  out: 

"Ah!  you  witch!  You  come  even  here,  hangwoman! 
You  who  killed  him!  Where  is  a  pistol  to  shoot  her! 
Let  it  be!  Better  death  for  him  than  to  be  your  hus- 
band!" 


THE  FRIGHTENED  SOUL 

By   Thrasyvoulos   Kastanakis 


THE   FRIGHTENED   SOUL 

You  will  hear  something  sadly  pale,  just  as  sadly  pale 
as  the  woman  who  whispered  to  me  these  dreams  beyond 
thought.  I  will  tell  you  something  which  has  nothing 
to  do  with  my  sweetheart,  yet  lies  in  the  pure  and  fra- 
grant embrace  of  love. 

She  was  just  ten  years  old,  as  homely  in  looks  as 
she  was  young,  the  little  maid-servant,  Nicoletta.  She 
had  a  frightened  soul  and  that  soul  I  will  disclose  as  I 
saw  it  when  sorrow  held  it  and  gave  it  its  dark  heat 
as  she  passed  before  me  hurriedly,  answering  either  the 
call  of  the  cook  or  that  of  her  mistress  upstairs. 

I  always  saw  her,  little  and  young,  slip  by  me  anxious 
to  answer  the  stern  call;  and  I  cannot  forget  the  swift 
shadow  that  her  childish  body  dragged  behind  it,  a 
body  that  seemed  ready  to  become  shorter  and  thinner 
every  time  she  was  scolded.  Her  hair,  reaching  to  her 
waist,  was  bound  in  a  braid  which  waved  restlessly  as 
she  ran.  Nor  can  I  forget  the  inevitable  white  bow 
which  was  tightly  bound  on  the  blonde  braid's  tip,  sitting 
on  her  back  like  a  dying  butterfly  weary  of  flying  any 
farther. 

Very  seldom  could  you  see  a  faint  smile  on  the  lips 

221 


222  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

of  the  little  girl.  Her  face  was  of  a  very  dark  com- 
plexion and  looked  mouldy  because  of  the  scars  that 
covered  it.  Her  eyebrows  were  straight  and  low,  join- 
ing each  other  without  curving  into  an  arch.  Her  eyes 
were  small  and  round,  her  lips,  in  her  large  mouth,  were 
very  thin  as  if  drawn  with  a  sharp  pointed  pencil. 

The  first  time  my  eyes  fell  on  her  she  was  pouring 
wine  for  me  at  my  country  house.  The  dim  light  of 
the  smoky  lamp  from  the  table  lighted  her  and  made 
me  believe  that  some  magician  had  on  the  hour  of  her 
birth  ordained  sorrow  her  life's  burden. 

Ever  since  that  moment  she  was  for  me  a  living  an- 
guish, bound  forever  in  her  bonds  of  sadness  by  the 
command  of  a  secret  fate. 

Her  eyes  would  always  look  at  you  stealthily.  They 
seemed  afraid  lest  they  might  light  on  some  evil  thing, 
but  even  as  they  flitted  hastily  over  you  they  showed  a 
deep  pressing  insistence  for  inquiry  which  chilled  you. 
She  would  look  at  you  with  a  curiosity  mingled  with 
fear;  but  the  moment  you  tried  to  look  back  at  her, 
she  would  with  quick  alertness  turn  her  eyes  away  to- 
wards the  table  or  the  floor  while  she  would  stoop  with 
the  instinct  of  a  little  housewife  to  pick  up  some 
neglected  crumb. 

Her  face  was  marked  with  the  wrinkles  of  weeping. 
When  she  passed  you  she  would  walk  on  tip-toe  making 
her  step  as  light  as  that  of  a  mouse  that  comes  out  in 
the  night,  afraid  to  be  heard  by  you  or  to  attract  your 


THE    FRIGHTENED    SOUL  223 

eyes  toward  her.  She  was  terrified  whenever  anyone 
looked  at  her.  She  would  lower  her  eyes  till  they  were 
almost  shut  and  a  veil  of  pallor  spread  over  her  face 
down  to  her  thin  lips. 

When  these  lips  smiled  they  were  like  a  garland  of 
thorns  in  miniature.  Her  laugh,  a  wave  of  sound  that 
whirled  and  slipped  past  the  garlanded  curb,  reminded 
me  of  worn-out  chords  which  are  kept  hidden  in  the 
hollows  of  the  heart  to  scatter  abroad  the  sound  of  pain 
mingled  with  the  music  of  despair.  It  was  an  ugly 
laugh  that  would  make  others  take  it  for  the  sound  of 
running  water  filling  a  pitcher,  but  to  me  it  brought 
back  the  memory  of  a  song  that  an  old  sweetheart  had 
sung  to  me  in  the  old  days,  filled  with  the  cold  shudder 
of  her  agony.  It  was  a  laugh  that  could  never  be  heard 
except  in  the  numbness  of  silence  and  in  the  darkness  of 
night  blurred  by  the  dim  light  of  the  smoky  lamp. 

In  a  corner  behind  an  old  ancestral  chest,  hiding  the 
relics  of  forgotten  festivals,  she  had  her  shrine.  Under 
cover  of  a  broad  sleepy  sofa  set  under  the  rich  images 
of  the  saints,  she  would  go  alone,  and  with  the  piety 
of  loneliness,  she  would  hold  there  Holy  Mass  for  her 
frightened  soul.  The  candle  flickering  before  the  saints 
would  answer  her  prayers  with  the  pale  whispers  of 
its  sparks  that  sputtered  as  an  echo  of  her  words,  and 
Nicoletta  would  hold  her  weak  breath  to  hear  them  in 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  night. 

One  such  moment,  when  the  room  seemed  leadened 


224  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

with  the  breath  of  sorrow,  I  went  near  her  with  the 
burden  of  an  emotion  I  felt  for  the  first  time,  and  hold- 
ing her  head  with  my  hands  I  looked  into  her  eyes,  shin- 
ing with  tears.  I  shall  never  forget  the  wild  expres- 
sion of  her  terror.  A  green  pallor  spread  over  her  face, 
darkening  the  color  of  her  scars,  and  her  teeth  gnashed 
in  strange  horror  as  if  a  row  of  glass  flowers  were 
cracking. 

I  had  never  seen  her  in  such  a  terror  of  despair  when 
she  was  running  away  from  the  angry  cook.  I  had 
never  seen  her  look  so  when,  escaping  someone's  punish- 
ment, she  rushed  quickly,  like  a  mouse  chased  by  a 
cat,  to  hide  behind  the  discreet  old  chest  or  behind  the 
sleepy  sofa  in  the  same  corner  where  she  held  holy  mass 
for  her  frightened  soul.  I  believed  for  a  moment  that 
I  had  before  me  the  naked  skeleton  of  hopeless  fright; 
and  she  stared  so  that  I  closed  my  eyes  humbly  and 
went  away  with  trembling  knees,  feeling  the  pursuit  of 
her  eyes  that  followed  me  like  a  flaming  punishment  for 
some  secret  sin. 

On  the  next  day  I  discovered  some  other  sinner,  too, 
pursued  by  the  same  eyes.  But  they  never  felt  their 
flaming  punishment,  and  I  pitied  them  for  their  callous- 
ness. I  was  sitting  at  meal  with  my  friend  Agesilaos 
and  his  wife,  Thecla,  who  were  living  in  my  house  at 
the  time,  about  a  wooden  table  outside  the  door  of  my 
house  which  faced  the  sea-shore.  I  had  a  bad  headache 
and  without  saying  a  word  I  raised  the  fork  to  my  mouth 


THE    FRIGHTENED    SOUL  225 

mechanically  with  my  thoughts  merged  in  vague  revery. 
Suddenly  a  restrained  laugh  made  me  look  towards 
them  although  it  was  a  look  of  cold  indifference.  But 
as  I  turned  I  saw  something  horrible,  a  martyr's  tor- 
ture which  in  spite  of  its  benumbing  tragedy  was  never 
felt  by  the  friendly  couple. 

Thecla,  her  pretty  face  red  with  pretended  anger, 
was  scolding  Nicoletta  just  for  fun,  a  play  which  was 
her  favorite  distraction.  She  was  accusing  the  little 
girl  of  having  broken  the  great  mirror  of  the  drawing 
room  which  she  knew  very  well  that  the  cook  had  broken 
by  accident.  Agesilaos  was  laughing  to  himself  and  try- 
ing to  hide  his  enjoyment  so  that  the  little  girl  might 
not  suspect  that  they  were  teasing  her,  and  regain  her 
courage.  I  looked  at  them  only  for  a  moment  with 
disgust  and  then  I  turned  my  eyes  full  of  reverence 
and  inexpressible  sympathy  towards  the  poor  child. 
It  was  sympathy  which  I  had  never  felt  before  and  I 
have  never  found  a  tear  to  equal  its  warmth. 

I  cannot  say  that  this  time  a  green  pallor  made  the 
dark  scars  of  her  lowered  face  appear  darker.  It  was 
rather  the  dark  color  of  those  scars  that  spread  over 
her  emaciated  features.  Her  whole  face  seemed  covered 
with  it.  She  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sand  immovably 
and  so  I  could  not  see  their  tearful  gleam.  Her  body 
which,  worn  with  sickness,  was  casting  a  thin  shadow  on 
the  beach,  trembled  and  as  the  trembling  spread  over  it 
I  felt  the  depth  of  its  waves  in  my  own  heart.    She  held 


226  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

her  hands  pressed  tight  against  her  breast  and  with 
sad  nervousness  was  tearing  with  her  fingernails  her 
half-worn  apron. 

The  scene  was  reaching  its  climax.  Agesilaos,  man- 
aging to  hide  his  laughter,  Thecla  raised  her  voice  more 
angrily,  and  the  little  girl,  who  had  not  said  a  word 
during  all  this  martyrdom,  at  last  spoke  with  a  voice 
of  complaint  that  trembled  as  her  lips  trembled:  **I 
haven't  broken  anything,  madam.  If  I  had  done  it, 
madam,  I  would  hide  behind  the  sofa — I  would  hide, 
madam!"  These  words  had  a  special  meaning  for  her; 
they  were  a  confession  of  the  most  sacred  secret  of  her 
soul  which  tore  the  heart  from  which  it  came;  for  im- 
mediately her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  began  crying 
as  she  covered  her  face  with  her  apron. 

''Come,  come,  whining  thing.  Go  in  and  see  what 
you  have  done  with  your  new  apron."  Thecla  dis- 
missed her  in  a  somewhat  milder  tone. 

Oh,  I  wish  I  had  that  apron  to  kneel  before  it  every 
night  and  worship  the  tatters  of  sorrow  left  on  the 
half-worn  cloth  by  her  finger-nails.  But  she  walked 
towards  the  house  with  head  bent  low  and  I  saw  her 
disappear  into  the  darkness  across  the  door  while  my 
ears  were  still  choked  by  the  trembling  of  her  sobs. 

The  others  said  something  meant  for  a  joke  and  burst 
into  laughter.  I  didn't  care  to  listen  to  them  and  I 
let  my  eyes  be  filled  with  the  red  revelry  of  light  in 
the  midst  of  the  blurred  gold  dance  of  the  sunbeams, 


THE    FRIGHTENED    SOUL  227 

a  drunken  dance  accompanied  by  the  song  breaking 
from  the  innumerable  mouths  of  the  infinite  sands. 

The  day  had  dawned  some  time  ago  and  the  sea 
spreading  before  my  window  far  and  wide  seemed  to 
be  trying  in  calm  composure  the  foam-born  airs  of  her 
songs  while  the  kisses  of  the  sun  were  beginning  to  glide 
softly,  like  sleepy  snakes,  on  its  surface.  But  with  the 
awakening  of  the  day  I  felt  a  sweet  weakness  like  the 
honey  of  vague  swarms  of  pleasure-bees,  hold  me  slave 
to  the  softness  of  my  bed.  My  eyes  Avould  now  mirror 
the  glitter  of  the  sea  and  now  the  shadow  of  love  in  the 
light  of  my  room.  Then  they  would  caress  carelessly 
the  countless  spots  reflected  from  the  gold  petals  of  the 
sea  on  the  walls  and  the  dreams  of  cobwebs  that  spread 
over  the  sleeping  corners.  A  lonely  glass  vase,  held 
high  in  the  green  embrace  of  the  wall  to  no  purpose 
and  without  a  flower  to  adorn  it,  made  an  effort  to  smile 
with  the  reflected  sunshine  which  came  fleetingly  now 
and  then  to  fill  its  dry  bosom. 

On  the  lapel  of  my  coat  which  lay  on  a  chair  there 
were  a  few  jasmines  of  crushed  whiteness,  complaining 
with  their  faint  fragrance  for  the  selfishness  of  the 
flower  worshipper.  The  stray  little  flowers  on  the  verge 
of  death  sent  forth  their  fragrance  mastering  proudly 
their  unspoken  complaint  and  scenting  with  the  last 
breath  of  their  softly  dying  life  the  room  where  bare 
joy  revelled,  maddened  with  the  beauty  of  full  light. 

Slowly,  like  the  sweet  nectar  which  in  the  shadow 


228  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

of  vagueness  make  you  believe  that  you  hold  in  your 
hands  the  happiness  of  drunken  dreams,  a  numbness 
began  to  bind  me  with  the  charm  of  black-fringed  eyes 
when  suddenly  a  whisper,  like  a  dirge,  shook  my 
thought.  It  was  something  infinitely  sadder  than  the 
complaint  of  the  jasmines,  something  reminding  you  of 
the  despair  of  things  that  never  come  to  blossom. 

At  first  I  thought  I  was  asleep  and  that  the  dirge  was 
a  dream.  Soon  I  realized  with  a  creeping  terror  that 
just  outside  my  door  the  frightened  soul  was  crying. 
It  was  her  own  way  of  crying,  a  whisper  choked  by  the 
trembling  of  her  sobs.  Lifted  with  the  wings  of  terror 
and  thinking  of  nothing  but  of  the  tears  of  the  little 
girl,  I  found  myself  facing  her  before  I  knew  that  I 
had  left  my  bed.  I  was  holding  the  door  ajar  and 
with  my  eyes  wide  open  I  was  taking  in  the  picture  of 
that  soul  crouching  under  the  shroud  of  fright,  a  pic- 
ture of  the  despair  of  things  that  never  come  to  blossom. 

There  she  stood  before  me  like  a  dream  of  tears  with 
eyes  cast  down.  About  her  waist  was  bound  that  apron 
torn  by  her  finger-nails  moved  by  the  countless  tremors 
of  sorrow.  Her  cheeks  showed  no  other  color  but  the 
bad  blackness  of  her  scars.  Her  lips,  which,  when  she 
laughed,  seemed  like  a  garland  of  thorns,  were  covered 
with  red  foam  like  a  shadow  dipped  in  rose  color  or  like 
the  blood  of  crimson  flowers  without  scent.  Vaguely  I 
could  see  at  moments  that  her  lips  were  a  well  of 
strange  trembling  which  though  clinging  fast  to  the 


THE    FRIGHTENED    SOUL  229 

flesh  had  no  relation  with  it.  On  her  unkempt  hair 
which  she  had  just  wetted  before  combing  it  the  white 
butterfly  of  her  bow  seemed  still  more  drooping  than 
before. 

We  were  alone.  I,  a  stunned  reveller  at  sorrow's 
banquet,  she  the  rich  cup-bearer. 

The  candle  before  the  saints  dazed  by  the  bold 
entrance  of  day  held  timidly  its  weary  flicker  within 
its  rim.  Near  it  a  few  everlastings  were  trying  to  for- 
get their  death  in  the  dreams  of  sleep ;  and  the  curtains 
with  their  aged  transparency  were  trying  to  remember 
their  youth  and  the  first  golden  kiss  that  the  fondling 
sun  had  given  them.  Everything  seemed  to  be  plunged 
in  thought  and  in  the  midst  of  thoughtful  silence,  the 
crying  of  the  frightened  soul  was  heard,  a  dance  of 
whispers  led  by  the  trembling  of  her  sobs. 

The  white  butterfly  perched  on  her  unkempt  hair 
which  she  had  just  wetted  before  combing,  seemed  to 
signify  with  its  drooping  weariness  the  praise  of  some- 
thing born  of  scorned  sorrow. 

Without  looking  at  me  and  with  eyes  cast  down  the 
little  girl  with  the  frightened  soul  opened  her  lips  and 
with  a  voice  soft  and  clear  in  spite  of  the  trembling  of 
her  sobs  spoke  her  complaint. 

"The  lady  beat  me  .  .  .  beat  me  hard,  first  time  so 
hard  .    .    .   because  I  wouldn't  clean  the  dog  of  his 

vlOxiiS*     •      •      • 

At  last  Nicoletta,  the  frightened  girl  had  spoken  words 


230  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

which  if  they  had  been  kept  unspoken  would  have  in- 
creased her  pain. 

"The  lady  beat  me  .  .  .  beat  me  hard  ^  .  .  because 
I  wouldn't  clean  the  dog  of  his  ticks."  Her  soft,  clear 
voice  impressed  these  words  on  my  memory  and  they 
seemed  to  sound  louder  in  my  ears  mingled  with  her 
plaintive  whispers. 

I  pictured  her  before  me  as  she  was  beaten  by  her 
mistress'  hands  of  rose  and  ivory  color;  and  I  pictured 
her  as  she  was  writhing  with  her  worn  apron  under 
Thecla's  satin  sleeves.  I  saw  the  unfortunate  child  of 
sorrow  feeling  the  torturing  barbarous  sting  of  phys- 
ical pain  and  a  creeping  shiver  filled  my  eyes  with 
tears.  I  came  near  her,  overflowing  with  sympathy,  and 
with  infinite  tenderness  I  held  her  head  in  my  hands, 
wishing  in  this  manner  to  pour  into  her  frightened  soul 
a  few  drops  from  the  endless  ocean  of  my  love. 

As  my  hands  touched  her  I  felt  again  the  fever  of 
her  fright,  her  incurable  illness,  passing  like  a  swift 
stream  through  my  fingers  into  every  part  of  my  body. 
It  spread  like  fatal  numbness.  I  was  so  confused  with 
my  emotion  that  I  did  not  know  whether  I  was  to  faint 
caressing  her  or  she  would  sink  under  the  acute  fever 
of  her  crjning. 

Early  next  morning  I  bade  good-bye  to  my  friends 
and  left  for  the  city,  without  mentioning  to  them  the 
name  of  Nicoletta. 


THE    FRIGHTENED   SOUL  231 

Several  months  afterwards,  which  seemed  a  long 
while  after  my  first  visit,  I  went  back  to  my  country 
house  on  a  winter  evening.  At  supper  I  saw  Nicoletta 
again  in  the  dim  light  of  the  same  smoky  lamp  set  on 
the  same  table  and  in  the  same  hour  of  the  night  as 
before.  But  she  looked  very  different  and  I  could 
scarcely  recognize  her  without  the  help  of  those  scars 
that  had  remained  still  unchanged. 

Her  body  had  now  grown  up  and  showed  the  curved 
lines  of  health.  Joy  reigned  on  her  face  and  a  quench- 
less smile  nestled  on  the  comers  of  the  same  lips  that 
held  mystic  mass  for  her  soul  under  the  rich  shrine  of 
images.  She  wore  a  new  apron,  white  with  a  broad 
lace  for  hemming.  I  wondered  what  had  become  of  the 
old  one  when  I  noticed  another  change.  A  bow  of  dark 
green  was  now  binding  her  well-combed  hair.  When 
Nicoletta  walked  this  bow  looked  like  a  butterfly  passing 
dreamingly  through  the  light  breath  of  languishing 
fragrance. 

A  smiling  face  with  the  rich  lines  of  health  on  her 
body!  A, great  miracle,  surely.  I  looked  at  her  with 
amazement  and  tried  in  vain  to  guess  the  cause  of  this 
change.  As  I  continued  to  be  absorbed  in  deep  thought, 
she  pushed  my  cup  nearer  me  and  spoke  with  a  voice 
that  sounded  like  a  song  of  joy: 

"Here  is  a  little  wine,  sir.    Let  me  see  if  you  like 

it." 

I  don't  know  what  seized  me.     Something  like  the 


232  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

mad  feeling  of  despairing  sorrow  seemed  to  crush  me. 
Half  choked  with  a  sob  I  whispered  to  her  unwillingly 
and  slowly,  as  she  was  filling  my  large  cup:  "Do  you 
remember  when  she  beat  you  because  you  wouldn't  clean 
the  dog  of  his  ticks?" 

I  would  have  said  more.  I  would  have  spoken  words 
that  would  be  like  endless  songs  but  I  felt  my  power  fail 
in  the  helpless  effort.  The  little  girl  paid  more  atten- 
tfon  to  the  flowing  wine  than  to  my  words,  and  when 
she  had  filled  my  cup  she  spoke  with  the  overflowing 
love  of  a  child.  "Drink  it  and  see  if  you  don't  like 
it.    My  father  brought  it  from  home  yesterday." 

Something  died  within  me  then  and  the  incense  of 
its  death  spread  through  my  whole  being.  The  sound 
of  the  flowing  wine  reminded  me  of  her  crying  which 
was  still  dinning  in  my  ears.  It  was  mingled  with  the 
songs  of  the  wind  expiring  on  the  cold  face  of  the  snow 
and  with  the  sputtering  sparks  of  the  candle  weary  of 
burning;  and  in  these  mingled  sounds  I  could  hear  a 
dirge  lamenting  for  the  passing  of  sorrow  and  for  some- 
thing that  had  snapped  within  me  and  was  now  dying. 
I  bent  over  my  glass  to  avoid  the  joyful  face  that  did 
not  know  how  to  remember. 

Later,  with  the  heat  of  the  wine,  I  came  to  believe 
something  strange  and  beyond  belief.  I  believed  that 
from  the  midst  of  my  dreams  of  sorrow  I  had  looked 
upon  that  little  girl  as  she  had  never  really  been;  and 
that  through  the  burden  of  these  dreams  I  had  created 


THE    FRIGHTENED    SOUL  233 

a  child  of  sorrow  living  within  me  while  I  imagined  her 
living  beside  me.  "With  a  broken  heart,  weary  and  hol- 
low, I  realized  now  that  my  own  creation  had  nothing 
in  common  with  the  real  one  except  those  scars  which 
marred  the  faces  of  both,  scars  that  knew  no  feeling. 


SHE   THAT  WAS   HOMESICK 
A.  Papadiamanty 


SHE   THAT  WAS  HOMESICK 

The  waning  moon  had  just  risen  above  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  and  she,  all  in  white,  after  listening  to  many- 
sighs  and  impassioned  songs  of  the  youth,  cried : 

"Oh!  if  I  only  had  a  boat.  Then  we  could  go  over 
there.**    She  pointed  far  over  the  harbor. 

Perhaps  Mathios  did  not  notice  that  the  end  of  her 
wish  had  changed  from  the  singular  to  the  plural.  Im- 
pulsively he  answered: 

"I  could  push  this  rowboat  into  the  water.  What  do 
you  say?    Shall  we  try  it?" 

He,  too,  changed  from  the  singular  to  the  plural,  and 
without  further  discussion,  as  if  he  were  merely  test- 
ing the  strength  of  his  muscles,  he  began  to  push  the 
little  boat. 

The  little  waves  of  the  sea,  lightly  moved  by  the 
breeze,  were  rhythmically  falling  upon  the  sand  and 
forever  swallowed  up  by  it — never  tiring  of  the 
monotonous  game,  as  the  sand  itself  never  had  enough 
of  the  salty  beverage.  The  young  woman  was  standing 
on  the  terrace  of  the  house  which  her  fifty-three-year-old 
husband  had  rented  for  her.  It  was  built  so  close  to  the 
water  that  it  was  in  or  out  of  it,  according  to  whether 

237 


238  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

the  south  wind  swelled  the  high  tide,  or  the  north  wind 
swept  out  the  low.  The  little  boat  was  partly  on  land 
and  partly  in  the  sea,  its  prow  deep  in  the  sand,  its 
stern  bobbing  up  and  down  on  the  waves. 

It  was  a  light,  coquettish  little  boat.  She  belonged 
to  a  schooner  of  the  island,  lying  loaded  in  the  bay. 
For  three  nights  her  captain  had  been  enjoying  his 
rest  with  his  wife  and  children.  His  sailors,  all  from 
this  island,  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  saloons,  making 
up  in  three  nights  for  the  enforced  temperance  of  the 
past  months.  The  cabin  boy,  who  was  from  another 
part  of  Greece,  had  been  left  alone  as  guardian  of  the 
schooner  and  her  cargo,  with  only  the  ship's  dog  for 
companion.  He  was  eighteen  years  old,  a  tall  boy,  pos- 
sessing all  a  sailor's  cravings,  if  not  his  pay,  and  he 
had  rowed  ashore  in  this  boat,  to  seek  what  consolation 
he  could  in  a  nearby  saloon. 

He  had  left  the  boat  half  drawn  up,  her  prow  deep 
in  the  sand,  her  stern  rocking  on  the  waves,  and  her 
two  oars  in  place.  They  were  light  oars  that  a  child 
would  have  handled  with  joy,  while  he  admired  his  own 
strength,  multiplied  by  the  gliding  smoothness  of  the 
waves — a  gliding  smoothness  which  yielded  like  the 
weakness  of  a  mother  to  the  tears  and  entreaties  of  a 
petted  child,  and  took  it  hither  and  yon  at  will — oars 
which  led  the  little  rowboat  over  the  sea,  as  the  two 
wings  of  the  white-breasted  seagull,  flitting  over  the 
waves,  carry  him  to  his  home  by  the  sea-bathed  rock. 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  239 

Mathios  leaned  his  two  hands  on  the  prow,  steadied 
himself  on  his  legs,  and  pushed  with  all  his  strength. 
The  little  felouka  slid  into  the  sea  with  a  splash.  She 
almost  escaped  from  his  grasp,  since  he  had  forgotten 
to  hold  on  to  the  painter,  the  rope  attached  to  the  prow. 
Instantly  Mathios  threw  his  light  sandals  from  his  feet, 
and  without  taking  time  to  roll  up  his  trousers,  sprang 
into  the  sea  up  to  his  knees,  caught  the  little  boat,  and 
drew  it  to  a  small  nearby  mole. 

Meanwhile  She  disappeared  from  the  terrace  only  to 
reappear  a  minute  later,  her  white  dress  shimmering  in 
the  moonlight.  Joy  and  fear  mingled  in  the  breast 
of  the  youth  at  the  sight.  He  was  acting  almost  un- 
consciously. He  had  not  hoped  that  she  would  really 
dare  to  come.  And  she,  not  caring  to  express  her  inner 
thoughts,  said  aloud: 

"Let's  take  a  turn  in  the  harbor,  in  the  beautiful 
moonlight;"  then  she  added,  "just  to  see  how  it  feels 
to  get  on  board — to  go  beyond." 

She  always  said  "beyond"  when  she  meant  her  birth- 
place. Behind  the  first  green  hill,  above  which  the  moon 
had  risen — a  hill,  dark  in  the  night,  now  grayish  under 
the  light  of  the  moon — a  tall  white  mountain  raised  its 
head,  which  sometimes  was  covered  with  snow,  sometimes 
was  bare  and  rocky.  Up  there  was  her  country,  the 
place  of  her  birth.  She  sighed  for  it  as  if  a  whole  oceafi 
rolled  between  her  and  it,  and  not  twelve  miles.  In  the 
daytime  the  little  green  hill  could  not  even  hide  the  tall 


240  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

brow  of  the  white  monntain.  She  longed  for  it  as  if 
she  had  not  seen  it  for  years,  while  it  was  only  a  few 
weeks  since  her  husband  had  brought  her  to  this  neigh- 
boring island. 

She  laid  her  soft  white  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
youth,  who  shivered  at  her  touch,  and  stepped  into  the 
little  boat.  He  followed,  and  taking  one  oar,  awkwardly 
strove  to  push  off.  Instead  of  pushing  the  mole,  he 
plunged  the  oar  into  the  water  alongside.  The  boat 
tilted  and  struck  a  stone. 

"Please  don't  let  us  injure  another  man's  boat,"  she 
cried.  The  incident  made  her  think  more  seriously  of 
her  action,  and  she  added:  "I  wonder  if  they  will  not 
miss  the  boat.  Perhaps  they  will  need  it.  Whose  is  it? 
Do  you  know?" 

Embarrassed,  the  young  man  replied:  "Since  we  are 
only  going  for  a  short  turn  in  the  harbor,  it  doesn't 
matter  whose  it  is.  I  don't  believe  they  will  need  it  so 
soon,  anyway.'* 

He  took  the  oars  and  began  to  row.  She,  seated  in 
the  stem,  was  bathed  in  the  full  light  of  the  pale  moon, 
which  sketched  her  delicate  features  as  if  in  silver. 
Timidly  he  gazed  at  her.  He  was  no  sailor,  but  he 
knew  how  to  row,  having  been  brought  up  by  the  sea. 
He  had  come  back  in  the  middle  of  the  year  from  the 
capital  of  the  province,  where  he  had  been  studying  in 
the  high  school,  because  he  had  refused  to  accept  the 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  241 

punishment  imposed  upon  him  for  having  disputed  with 
one  of  the  professors  whom  he  considered  more  than  or- 
dinarily stupid.  He  was  barely  eighteen,  but  looked  a 
year  or  two  older,  owing  to  the  thick  hair  beginning 
to  grow  upon  his  lips  and  cheeks. 

After  seating  herself,  the  young  woman  reverted  to 
her  last  remark,  and  added  cheerfully: 

**The  owner  will  be  looking  for  his  boat,  and  Uncle 
Monachaki  will  be  looking  for  his  Lalio.'* 

The  youth  smiled.  Uncle  Monachaki  was  her  hus- 
band's name;  Lalio,  her  own. 

At  that  moment  over  the  water  a  dog  barked  loudly. 
It  was  the  dog  of  the  loaded  schooner  to  which  the  little 
felouka  belonged.  He  rushed  to  the  very  tip  of  the 
prow.  At  first  he  wagged  his  tail  and  yelped  because  he 
recognized  the  boat.  When  she  came  nearer,  and  he 
did  not  see  among  the  passengers  either  the  cabin  boy 
or  any  of  the  crew,  he  began  to  bark  and  growl  furi- 
ously. 

The  young  student  rowed  away  from  the  schooner, 
which  made  the  dog  bark  more  furiously  than  ever. 

"What  ails  him?"  Lalio  asked  anxiously.  * 

"Evidently  he  has  recognized  the  boat." 

"Does  it  belong  to  the  schooner?" 

"It  would  seem  so." 

The  youth  expressed  this  possibility  with  sorrow,  see- 
ing in  it  the  necessity  for  shortening  their  dream-like 


242  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

expedition.  Fortunately  Lalio,  like  a  naughty  child 
who  takes  intense  delight  in  doing  what  she  is  for- 
bidden, clapped  her  hands  and  cried: 

**I  am  delighted.  Let  the  dog  bark  for  his  boat — 
and  let  them  look  for  me!" 

Encouraged,  the  youth  asked:  "Where  was  Uncle 
Monachaki  when  you  left  the  house?" 

'*ln  the  coffee-house,  as  usual.  All  his  time  is  spent 
there.  He  can  scarcely  unglue  himself  by  midnight — 
always  leaving  me  alone!" 

She  seemed  ready  to  weep,  and  controlled  herself  with 
effort. 

The  youth  continued  to  row,  and  after  a  while  they 
were  not  far  from  the  east  entrance  of  the  harbor. 
Exactly  opposite  there  lay  the  long  island,  over  which 
the  white  mountain  rose,  sometimes  covered  with  snow, 
at  others  in  the  naked  grey  of  its  rocks.  When  they 
drew  near  the  shore  of  the  promontory  which  formed 
one  of  the  jaws  of  the  harbor,  the  young  woman  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  horizon,  as  if  anxious  to  pene- 
trate farther  than  the  pale  light  of  the  moon  would 
allow. 

"Let  me  look  a  bit  beyond,  and  then  we  can  turn 
back,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

The  young  man,  encouraged,  asked:  "What  is  that 
song  that  you  sometimes  sing?" 

"What  song?" 

"The  song  .   .   .  that  tells  of  the  sails,  of  the  rudder 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  243 

...  of  the  mountains  beyond,"  the  young  man  whis- 
pered. 

"Ah!"  and  immediately,  with  a  tender  mezzo- 
soprano  voice,  and  in  a  pathetic  tone  she  began  to 
hum: 

**  *"When  will  you  come  and  sail  with  me? 
The  mountains  yonder  I  long  to  see. 
I'll  take  the  rudder  as  on  we  go, 
And  bid  farewell  to  my  grief  and  woe.*  " 

She  repeated  the  song  two  or  three  times  to  an  old 
tune. 

* '  Now  you  are  seeing  the  mountains  beyond, ' '  Mathios 
said,  * '  only  instead  of  sails  we  have  oars,  and  the  rudder 
is  missing." 

Once  more  the  young  woman  sighed. 

*'Is  it  time  for  us  to  turn  back?"  The  words  fell 
from  the  lips  of  the  youth  like  withered  flowers. 

*'Ju8t  a  little  bit  farther,"  Lalio  begged.  "The 
shadows  cast  by  those  islands  prevent  me  from  seeing 
well  beyond.    I  can  only  see  Derphi." 

"Derphi  is  there,"  said  the  young  man,  pointing  to- 
ward the  south. 

Lalio,  pointing  to  the  east,  corrected  him.  "We  call 
Derphi  the  tall  mountain  of  my  birthplace. ' ' 

Once  more  she  hummed  her  song,  changing  one 
word. 


244  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

**  'When  will  you  come  and  sail  with  me? 
My  own  dear  Derphi  I  long  to  see. 
I'll  take  the  rudder,  as  on  we  go, 
And  bid  farewell  to  my  grief  and  woe/  " 

The  tall  young  man  drew  a  deep  breath,  like  a  sigh. 

"Ah,  I  forget.  Your  poor  shouldera  must  be  lame 
with  rowing,"  she  cried.  "Really,  I  am  behaving  like 
mad.  Your  poor  little  hands  were  not  made  for  rowing, 
Mr.  Mathios." 

The  young  man  protested.  "No,  no,  I'm  not  tired. 
The  oars  are  very  light.  Such  oars  could  not  possibly 
tire  one." 

Lalio  insisted  on  taking  one  of  them,  and,  bending  a 
little  forward,  tried  to  loosen  one  of  the  oarlocks,  to 
move  it  nearer  her.  The  youth  resisted,  and  her  white 
hand  touched  his. 

"You  said  that  my  hands  were  tender,"  Mathios 
said,  gazing  into  her  eyes. 

"Very  well,  then,  let's  put  up  a  sail,  as  it  says  in  the 
song,"  Lalio  said  playfully. 

"Where  shall  we  find  the  sail?"  he  inquired,  uncon- 
sciously looking  at  her  white  dress. 

Lalio  laughed,  and  leaned  back  again  in  the  stern. 

They  had  now  reached  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  and 
found  themselves  between  two  little  islands  and  the 
precipitous  sides  of  the  promontory.     The  moon  rose 


SHE    THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  245 

higher  in  the  firmament,  dimming  the  stars  that  were 
timidly  shining  in  the  corners  of  the  sky.  The  sea  was 
rulBed  by  the  light  breeze,  remnant  of  the  strong  wind 
of  the  morning.  It  was  a  warm  May  night,  but  the 
breeze  became  cooler  as  they  approached  the  entrance 
of  the  harbor.  Their  two  figures  were  silvered  by  the 
melancholy  light  of  the  moon,  in  whose  semi-obscurity 
the  details  of  the  landscape  were  lost.  The  little  boat 
was  passing  close  to  one  of  the  small  islands  on  which 
light  and  dark  objects  could  be  seen:  rocks  sparkling 
under  the  rays  of  the  moon,  grey  bushes  gently  stirring 
under  the  breath  of  the  night  wind,  caverns  beaten  by 
the  rushing  waves,  where  sea-birds  must  have  their  home, 
and  whence  came  the  agonized  whirring  of  wild  part- 
ridges, frightened  by  the  sound  of  the  oars  and  the 
approach  of  the  little  boat.  Toward  the  northeast,  on 
a  slope  of  the  mountain,  lights  trembled,  where  in  the 
daytime  appeared  the  tiny  white  houses  of  the  little 
village  high  above  the  sea. 

On  a  rock,  full  of  caverns  and  crevices,  jutting  out 
from  the  island,  the  sea  beat,  splashing  and  crashing, 
and  disturbing  the  harmony  of  the  moonlit  scene.  It 
constituted  an  orchestra  of  its  own,  an  orchestra  that 
made  more  noise  than  did  the  waves  in  all  the  inlets 
and  beaches,  on  all  the  shores  and  the  other  rocks  on 
which  they  fell. 

Presently  Mathios  raised  the  oars  and  rested  them  for 
a  while  in  the  oarlocks.    He  remained  quiet,  resembling 


246  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

the  white  seabird  which  Joyfully  leans  toward  the  wave, 
one  wing  up,  the  other  down,  immovable  for  a  minute, 
before  hastening  to  catch  the  swimming  fish  and  raise 
it  squirming  into  the  air.  The  youth  was  under  an 
indiscribable  spell.  Lalio,  too,  was  under  an  unknown 
enchantment,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"Shall  we  hoist  a  sail?"  she  asked. 

Evidently  she  had  never  ceased  to  think  of  it,  since 
he  had  first  suggested  it.  She  said  it  now  simply  and 
naturally,  as  if  she  were  interpreting  the  thought  of 
both. 

"Let  us,"  he  answered,  still  in  a  trance.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  was  saying:  he  did  not  ask  with  what 
they  should  hoist  a  sail. 

Lalio  saved  him  that  trouble.  She  rose,  bent  grace- 
fully, and  with  a  quick  movement  divested  herself  of 
her  white  dress,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Now  get  the  mast  ready." 

Surprised,  happy,  and  spellbound  the  youth  took  one 
of  the  oars  and  stepped  it  through  a  hole  in  the  for- 
ward seat ;  then  he  took  the  white  dress,  still  warm  from 
the  young  woman's  touch,  and  attached  it  to  the  oar 
for  a  sail. 

Lalio  remained  in  her  short  white  petticoat,  beneath 
which  her  shapely,  white-stockinged  legs  could  be  seen. 
The  beauty  of  her  neck  was  now  partly  covered  by  her 
red  silk  scarf,  as  shyly  she  sat,  looking  more  than  ever 
like  a  charming  little  girl. 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  247 

The  breeze  had  grown  stronger,  and  the  improvised 
sail  held  the  wind  well  and  carried  the  little  boat  swiftly 
along. 

There  was  no  longer  a  question  of  returning  to  the 
harbor.  Why  should  they?  It  was  evident  now  that 
they  were  sailing  for  the  mountain  beyond.  Mathios 
was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  stern,  not  very 
close  to  Lalio,  his  eyes  on  the  sea,  lest  he  should  keep 
them  too  much  on  his  fellow  passenger  and  embarrass 
her. 

At  that  moment  a  song  of  the  Heptanesian  poet  came 
into  his  mind,  a  song  that  played  a  great  part  in  all 
romantic  love  affairs  of  that  time.  *  *  Awake,  sweet  love,  * ' 
it  began.  He  recalled  another  line:  "Only  the  pale 
moon,"  and  then  still  another  song  recurred  to  him: 

*  *  Farewell,  my  deep  ravines,  where  cooling  waters  dwell ; 
Sweet  dawns  and  happy  birds,  forevermore  farewell  I" 

He  remembered  all  these  songs,  but  had  no  wish  to 
sing  them.  They  seemed  to  him  quite  out  of  place.  That 
which  seemed  most  appropriate  was  the  one  beloved  of 
Lalio — 

"When  will  you  come  and  sail  with  me? 
The  mountains  yonder  I  long  to  see. 
I'll  take  the  rudder  as  on  we  go, 
And  bid  farewell  to  my  grief  and  woe." 


248  MODEKX   GREEK   STORIES 

He  was  sitting  not  very  close  to  Lalio,  too  close,  how- 
ever, for  him  to  be  able  easily  to  look  at  her,  yet  so  far 
away  that  neither  her  breath  nor  the  warmth  of  her 
body  could  reach  him.  So  intensely  did  he  wish  to  look 
at  her  that  he  became  dizzy  watching  the  sea. 

He  took  off  his  short  light  coat  and  begged  her  to 
pnt  it  on  so  that  she  might  not  catch  cold,  because,  as 
the  night  advanced,  the  mist  from  the  mountains  be- 
came thicker.  She  refused  it,  maintaining  that  so  far 
from  being  cold  she  was  quite  warm. 

Mathios  did  not  insist.  He  began  to  think  about  her, 
about  her  life,  and  her  fate,  and  whatever  he  knew  of 
her.  The  young  woman  had  only  known  his  parents 
since  the  time  of  her  short  stay  on  the  island.  She  was 
not  in  her  first  youth,  although  she  still  retained  almost 
all  her  virginal  freshness.  Neither  was  she  newly  wed. 
She  was  twenty-five  years  old,  and  had  been  married 
for  five  years.  She  was  Mr.  Monachaki's  second  wife. 
He  had  been  a  widower,  and  after  marrjnng  off  his 
daughter,  one  year  older  than  Lalio,  he  had  married 
her;  and  the  girl's  youth  had  seemed  to  make  him  twenty 
years  younger.  As  long  as  he  had  stayed  away  from 
his  native  place — serving  as  an  official  wherever  the 
government  chose  to  send  him — Lalio  did  not  very  much 
mind.  She  had  remained  near  her  parents,  since  she 
was  unable  to  follow  Mr.  Monachaki  all  over  Greece, 
where,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  was  thrown  about  like 
an  old  boot.    The  wind  blowing  about  him  was  unsuited 


SHE    THAT    WAS    HOMESICK  249 

to  tender  flowers,  and  if  devastating  hands  had  dared 
to  transplant  her,  she  would  have  withered  in  a  single 
month.  The  pot  was  alabaster,  the  plant  delicate,  and 
the  blossom  exhaled  an  aroma  not  meant  for  vulgar 
nostrils. 

After  much  wire-pulling  Mr.  Monaehaki  managed  to 
have  himself  appointed  permanently  to  the  neighboring 
island.  Then  he  pursuaded  his  father-in-law,  who  was 
of  his  own  age,  and  whom  he  greatly  respected,  to  send 
Lalio  to  him,  so  that  they  might  live  under  the  same 
roof.  Weeping,  the  young  woman  embarked  on  a  boat, 
to  go  to  the  island.  She  bade  good-bye  to  her  step- 
daughter, for  whom  she  entertained  a  real  sisterly  feel- 
ing. The  latter  had  just  become  a  mother,  and  had 
ceased  to  fear  the  arrival  of  a  step-brother. 

Mr.  Monaehaki,  on  the  happy  day  of  the  arrival  of 
his  young  wife,  gave  a  party  to  all  his  friends,  to  share 
in  his  rejoicing,  but  on  the  next  day  his  doors  were 
closed,  and  he  was  at  home  to  no  one.  This  was 
not  strange,  since  he  never  was  at  home  himself.  He 
spent  his  time  either  at  his  office,  or  at  the  coffee-house, 
with  his  enormous  pipe  always  alight,  and  reaching  the 
full  length  of  his  baggy  light-blue  trousers.  He  was  a 
lively  man,  constantly  talking  and  laughing  noisily. 
His  cheeks  were  red — almost  the  shade  of  his  tall  fez 
which  tilted  over  his  left  ear,  its  long  shiny  tassel  rest- 
ing on  his  shoulder. 

Soon  after  her  arrival,  whenever  Lalio  was  awake  at 


250  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

the  midnight  hour  of  her  husband's  return,  she  began 
to  complain,  and  beg  to  be  sent  back  to  her  native  place. 
She  maintained  that  she  could  not  live  away  from  her 
parents.  Indeed,  from  the  first  day  of  her  coming,  her 
heart  had  ached,  she  could  not  eat,  and  her  color  began 
to  fade. 

Uncle  Monachaki  gave  her  sweetly  to  understand  that 
it  was  not  becoming  to  leave  him  so  soon  after  her  ar- 
rival. He  proceeded  to  expound  long  theories  showing 
that  the  wife  should  ever  be  by  the  side  of  her  husband, 
arguing  that  otherwise  the  object  of  Christian  marriage 
would  be  nullified.  He  explained  that  according  to 
orthodox  vows,  marriage  was  the  union  of  the  wisdom 
of  man  and  woman,  and  not  necessarily  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  the  race,  since  if  the  latter  were  the  sole  object, 
divorce  would  be  the  natural  outcome  of  a  childless  mar- 
riage. For  the  propagation  of  the  race,  physical  union 
"was  enough,  while  religious  and  political  marriage  was 
quite  another  thing.  To  strengthen  his  position  he 
quoted  from  the  scriptures  such  sayings  as,  "This  is 
bone  of  my  bone  and  flesh  of  my  flesh,"  "Whom  God 
had  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder,"  "Man 
is  the  head  of  tke  woman,"  and  many  others. 

Lalio  stifled  her  sobs  in  the  palms  of  her  hands  and 
in  her  heavy  tresses,  and  wiped  away  her  tears  with  the 
long  ends  of  her  white  tulle  cap. 

As  a  neighbor,  the  youth  was  aware  of  all  this,  and 
secretly  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.     The  grace  of  her 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  251 

slender  form  was  not  lost  in  the  loose  garment  she  wore. 
Her  lovely  face  was  framed  by  her  abundant  and 
naturally  wavy  hair.  Under  her  finely  arched  eyebrows, 
the  light  of  her  dark,  deepset  eyes  burned  steadfastly, 
and  her  red  lips  lent  color  to  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks, 
which  blushed  under  the  smallest  exertion  and  least  emo- 
tion. The  gentle  light  of  her  eyes  had  burned  into  the 
heart  of  the  youth.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 
Often  coming  out  on  her  terrace,  she  would  for  an  in- 
stant look  at  him  dreamily  and  absent-mindedly.  Then 
her  gaze  would  travel  to  an  object  on  the  eastern  horizon, 
to  the  mountain  beyond.  This  evening,  however,  during 
the  absence  of  her  husband,  as  soon  as  the  moon  rose,  she 
had  come  out  on  her  terrace.  She  had  seen  Mathios 
standing  below  her,  enjoying  the  sea  breeze.  Then,  at 
random,  and  without  thinking,  she  had  made  the 
astounding  proposition  which  had  led  to  this  strange 
voyage. 

The  young  woman  now  seemed  in  a  mysterious  exis- 
tence, in  a  life  of  enchantment  from  which  occasionally 
for  a  few  minutes  she  emerged,  only  to  relapse  even 
deeper  into  her  marvellous  and  wonderful  dream. 

It  was  already  midnight,  and  since  they  were  rudder- 
less, now  the  current  of  the  sea,  now  the  breeze  from  the 
land,  had  impelled  them  little  by  little  northward,  oppo- 
site the  twinkling  lights  of  the  high  village,  which  at 
present  appeared  much  nearer.  They  were  also  quite 
near  to  a  solitary  and  rocky  island,  known  as  Aspronesi, 


252  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

which  was  the  prison  of  a  few  hares,  thrown  there  by 
the  villagers,  and  also  served  as  a  sanctuary  for  all  gulls 
and  other  sea-birds.  Here  it  became  necessary  for 
Mathios  to  unfasten  their  makeshift  sail,  and  give  her 
garment  back  to  Lalio,  who  was  quite  cold,  although  she 
refused  to  admit  it.  After  taking  down  their  improvised 
sail,  the  youth  took  an  oar  and  began  to  use  it  as  a 
rudder,  endeavoring  to  turn  the  prow  of  the  boat  toward 
the  left,  toward  the  most  eastern  point  of  the  opposite 
shore,  which  was  called  Tracheli.  He  realized,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  not  succeeding,  the  current  not  being 
propitious,  and  he  was  forced  once  more  to  begin 
rowing. 

The  spirit  of  the  night  breezes  which  were  blowing 
from  the  land,  and  that  of  the  sea  waves  between  the 
two  islands  were  tonight  on  the  side  of  Lalio;  for  no 
sooner  were  they  a  few  boat-lengths  from  Aspronesi  than 
they  saw  a  large  scamhavia,  a  barge,  appearing  from 
the  harbor,  near  the  three  islands  to  the  southeast.  She 
was  gliding  over  the  sea  at  great  speed  and  heading 
for  the  promontory,  Tracheli.  Her  six  oars  rhytli- 
mically  dipped  into  the  water,  and  she  slipped  over  the 
surface  of  the  waves,  as  a  young  mare  gambols  in 
the  field,  after  she  has  managed  to  escape  from  the 
stable. 

At  sight  of  the  scamhavia  Lalio  was  taken  aback.  The 
youth  turned  to  see,  and  stopped  rowing,  uncertain  what 
to  do  next. 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  253 


t<i 


'Quick!  quick!"  Lalio  whispered,  as  if  afraid  that 
her  voice  might  carry  to  the  barge.  **Row  behind  As- 
pronesi — please!'* 

Mathios  quickly  turned  the  prow  of  the  boat  as  she 
desired.  Fortunately  they  were  in  the  shadow  of  the 
shore,  which  prevented  the  light  of  the  moon  from  be- 
traying them.  They  turned  a  jutting  point  of  rock, 
and  were  hidden  behind  the  little  island. 

"What  do  you  think  it  is?"  Lalio  asked  anxiously. 

"Without  doubt  they  are  searching  for  us." 

"How  big  their  boat  is!" 

"Yes,  it  has  many  oars,  and  eats  up  the  space." 

"So,  if  we  had  been  in  front  there,  they  would  have 
caught  us." 

"They  are  making  for  Tracheli.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  would  have  been  upon  us,  had  we  gone  there." 

"We  did  well,  then,  to  come  here." 

"We  did  not  come,  the  current  brought  us." 

"The  good  waves  knew  what  they  were  about,"  Lalio 
said,  as  if  she  were  giving  forth  that  which  she  had 
seen  in  a  dream.  And  she  said  it  believing  at  that 
moment  that  mere  inanimate  objects  had  a  mind  under 
the  direction  and  will  of  a  god.  Indeed,  one  could  al- 
most believe  that  the  night  nymph  had  actually  pushed 
the  little  boat  with  its  graceful  cargo  toward  that  side 
on  purpose. 

* '  What  shall  we  do  now  ? ' '  asked  Mathios,  feeling  un- 
able to  cope  with  the  situation,  without  the  assistance 


254  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

of  a  kind  nymph,  and  realizing  why  from,  the  beginning 
of  the  world  woman  had  been  created. 

"Now,"  said  Lalio,  speaking  persuasively  and  wisely, 
as  if  she  had  all  along  foreseen  this  turn  of  affairs,  "we 
will  wait  here  for  about  half  an  hour,  and  unless  they 
suspect  our  being  here,  and  come  for  us,  they  will  make 
for  Tracheli.  Then  we  can  land  over  there  at  St.  Nich- 
olas. From  there,  in  about  half  an  hour,  on  foot,  we 
can  make  Platana,  the  high  village.  From  there,  when 
God's  daylight  comes,  we  will  walk  for  three  hours,  and 
that  will  bring  us  to  my  own  big  village.  Oh!  if  only 
my  foot  could  touch  its  holy  soil!  But  if  they  suspect 
where  we  are,  and  come  here,  well,  we  shall  have  to 
make  for  your  island,  and  reach  Kephala  as  quickly  as 
we  can.  There  we  shall  leave  the  boat  on  the  sand,  and 
return  home  on  foot.  'Where  were  you,  Lalio?'  *  I  went 
for  a  turn.  Uncle  Monachaki,  and  here  I  am  again.'  " 

She  laughed  at  her  o^vn  pertness.  Seeing  the  youth 
still  anxious,  she  went  on:  "All  I  ask  is  for  them  not 
to  catch  us.  I  don't  care  what  they  will  say.  So  long 
as  we  are  innocent,  let  stupid  people  calumniate  us  if 
they  like." 

Mathios  bent  lovingly  and  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fing- 
ers, thinking  that  he  was  innocent — yes,  as  innocent  as 
many  who,  according  to  history,  had  been  unjustly  con- 
demned to  the  slow  death  by  fire. 

She  added  sternly:  "If  I  wanted  a  lover,  the  best 
way  of  having  him  would  be  to  stay  with  Uncle  Mona- 


SHE    THAT    WAS   HOMESICK  255 

chaki.  The  proof  that  I  don't  want  a  lover  is  that  I 
have  started  to  go  back  to  my  own  parents.  They  can 
not  cover  me  up.    Uncle  Monachaki  alone  could  do  it." 

A  pain  like  a  knife  thrust  cut  through  the  heart  of 
the  youth.  He  imagined  her  in  love  with  some  one  in 
her  native  land,  and  for  his  sake  having  undertaken  this 
curious  journey.  If  that  were  the  case,  what  was  his 
own  position?  What  role  was  he  playing?  He  was  but 
the  bridge  over  which  two  lovers  stepped  who  were  seek- 
ing each  other. 

Oh !  what  a  flame  burned  inside  him !  He  felt  at  that 
moment  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  all  the  instincts  of  a 
tragic  hero  raging  and  storming.  (Did  the  conscience 
of  the  writer  permit  it,  this  idyl  could  easily  be  turned 
into  a  tragedy.  Imagine  the  dramatic  pursuit  of  the 
two  runaways  by  the  scambavia,  Mathios  escaping 
through  his  miraculous  rowing,  only  to  learn  at  the  last 
moment  that  she  that  was  homesick  had  a  lover  there 
beyond.  Thereupon  the  youth  stabs  her  with  a  dagger, 
or,  sinking  the  boat,  drowns  both  her  and  himself.  Then 
the  barge,  by  the  light  of  the  waning  moon,  searching 
for  the  two  bodies  in  the  depth  of  the  sea.  What  a 
miracle  of  romanticism!    What  tears  of  sentimentality!) 

With  a  great  effort  Mathios  mastered  himself,  and, 
looking  straight  at  the  young  woman,  asked  simply: 

"Was  no  one  in  love  with  you,  there  beyond,  before 
you  married  Uncle  Monachaki?" 

'Of  course— a  great  many!"  Lalio  answered  play- 


«<< 


256  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

fully.  "Only  this  was  the  tronble:  girls  without 
dowries  are  loved  like  the  flowers.  One  inhales  their 
perfume,  and  then  lets  them  either  wither,  or  fall  to 
pieces.  I  didn  't  happen  to  have  a  big  dowry,  so  no  one 
loved  me  sufficiently  to  wish  to  marry  me  with  pomp 
and  ceremony,  or  to  elope  with  me  and  marry  me 
secretly,  with  only  one  priest,  sure  that  my  parents  in 
the  end  would  be  willing  to  give  up  the  dowry.  So  you 
see  no  one  turned  to  ask  for  my  hand,  except  Uncle 
Monachaki.  Well,  after  all,  it  wasn't  so  bad,"  and  she 
hummed  the  song — 

**My  parents  gave  me  in  marriage 
Without  asking  what  I  thought." 


<(i 


'Then  are  you  only  running  away  from  Uncle  Mona- 
chaki?" the  youth  asked,  referring  to  the  last  remark 
of  her  confession. 

"I  am  not  running  away.  I  am  returning  home,  I 
am  going  to  find  my  parents.  If  Uncle  Monachaki 
comes  to  me  in  my  native  land  he  is  welcome.  He  knows 
very  well  that  I  am  incapable  of  betraying  him,  but 
he  also  knows  that  I  cannot  live  in  exile." 

The  youth  felt  uneasy.  He  suspected  that  a  woman 
ever  deceives.  He  imagined  himself  a  victim  of  her 
wiles.     Abruptly  he  asked: 

"Is  it  possible  that  some  particular  man  has  not 
singled  you  out — and  that  you  do  not  care  for  him 


SHE    THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  257 

more  than  for  the  others — ^before  you  were  married — 
or  afterwards?" 

Lalio  sighed  deeply  as  she  replied:  "Oh,  yes,  to  be 
frank  with  you,  he  who  would  have  liked  to  marry  me, 
and  whom  I  should  have  liked  to  marry,  was  taken  six 
years  ago  by  the  Black  Sea.  The  sailboat  was  lost  with 
all  on  board.  But,  for  mercy's  sake,  why  do  you  insist 
on  questioning  me?" 

Meanwhile  the  barge,  which  the  two  runaways  never 
stopped  furtively  watching,  after  continuing  for  some 
time  toward  the  east,  when  it  reached  the  end  of 
the  easterly  island,  stopped.  Mathios  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  his  companion  to  this. 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

"What?" 

"You  will  see  in  a  moment." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Be  patient:  I  will  solve  the  riddle.  Now  you  will 
see  the  barge  turn  toward  Tracheli. ' ' 

"How  do  you  know?    Are  you  a  witch?" 

"Yes,  I  am — I  am  a  witch,"  she  replied  with  con- 
viction. 

Mathios  felt  a  vague  fear  at  her  sparkling  eyes.  At 
that  very  moment,  the  barge  turned  definitely  to  the 
east,  and  started  more  rapidly  on  her  way. 

Mathios  gave  a  gasp  of  admiration. 
'I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  Lalio  went  on.    "I  will 


if 


258  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

bet  you  ninety-five  to  a  hundred  that  Uncle  Monaehaki 
is  on  the  scamhavia." 

"Well?'' 

"Those  at  the  oars,  to  avoid  the  long  trip,  and  because 
they  have  reasoned  it  out  that  way,  must  have  urged 
him  to  hunt  all  around  the  little  islands,  thinking  to 
come  upon  us  in  some  of  the  inlets.  Uncle  Monaehaki, 
who  knows  very  well  that  I  have  no  business  with 
the  islands,  but  that  I  have  started  for  my  native 
land,  is  certain  that  I  have  made  for  Tracheli,  and 
if  he  can  manage  to  catch  up  with  me  before  I 
have  set  foot  on  Egnonda,  the  harbor  of  my  island, 
he  hopes  to  coax  me  to  return  with  him  to  your  island. 
For  this  reason  he  does  not  wish  to  lose  time  search- 
ing around  the  little  islands,  and  so  give  me  time 
to  escape  'beyond.'  So  he  has  pursued  those  at  the 
oars  to  make  for  Tracheli,  though  inwardly  they  are 
cursing." 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"Well,  when  they  get  a  little  way  off,  we  can  go  over 
there.    Give  me  one  of  the  oars." 

Mathios  did  not  refuse.  Presently  the  barge  was  so 
far  away  that  one  could  hardly  discern  her  upon  the 
immense  horizon.  She  was  a  mere  dark  spot  on  the 
silvery  surface  of  the  sea. 

Joyfully  Lalio  cried:  "Now  row  for  all  we  are 
worth." 


SHE    THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  259 

The  homesick  bride  was  right:  Mr.  Monachaki  was 
aboard  the  barge. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  two  runaways  had  embarked, 
he  had  heard  the  disquieting  news  that  his  Lalio  was  no 
longer  in  his  home.  He  was  sitting  in  the  coffee-house, 
engaged  in  an  animated  political  discussion,  smoking 
his  enormous  pipe,  when  a  ten-year-old  boy — barefooted, 
and  dressed  in  a  striped  shirt  and  trousers,  rushed  in, 
crying : 

** Uncle,  your  wife  is  gone!" 

"Gone?     Where?"  asked  the  good  man  in  surprise. 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know — then  how  did  you  hear  about 
it?" 

"Basil,  the  son  of  the  widow  of  Markos,  was  on  the 
beach,  and  saw  her." 

"And  who  is  this  Basil,  son  of  the  widow  of  Markos?" 

The  boy  pointed  toward  the  door.  "That  fellow  out- 
side.'' 

The  euriosity  of  Mr.  Monachaki  and  of  his  companions 
was  now  thoroughly  aroused,  and  they  all  looked  toward 
the  entrance.  Another  boy,  eight  years  old,  bare-footed 
and  bare-headed,  with  one  trouser  leg  rolled  up  to  his 
knee,  and  his  feet  wet  with  salt  water,  stood  outside, 
hiding  half  his  face  behind  the  door-post  and  keeping 
his  body  safely  behind  the  wall,  while  he  anxiously 
watched  with  his  exposed  eye  to  see  what  was  going  to 
happen  in  the  coffee  house. 


260  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

*  *  Hey,  there !  Was  it  you  who  saw  my  wife  go  away  f ' ' 
Mr.  Monaehaki  shouted. 

"I  did,  uncle,"  the  child  answered. 

"Where  did  she  go?" 

*' Don't  know." 

Mr.  Monaehaki  was  upset.  He  rose  and  made  an 
angry  movement  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  meant  to  dash 
his  pipe  on  the  floor. 

The  first  boy,  who  was  standing  only  five  paces  from 
him,  was  frightened  and  started  to  run.  He  did  not 
want  to  get  a  blow  from  that  pipe.  The  older  boy  van- 
ished behind  the  wall. 

** Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Monaehaki.  "If  you  are 
telling  the  truth,  I  won't  touch  you.  Just  come  here 
and  tell  me  what  you  know — I  have  a  reason." 

Sorrow,  anger  and  shame  dominated  the  old  man. 

"It  was  this  way,  uncle,"  the  boy  said,  picking  up 
courage  again,  but  unwilling  to  be  too  distant  from  the 
door.  "Basil  saw  the  boat  when  your  wife  got  into  it 
with  Kalioras'  son,  and  started  rowing  away.  Then  he 
called  me  and  showed  me  the  boat.  It  was  quite  far, 
I  couldn't  see  the  man  in  it.  We  thought  they  would 
come  back  soon.  Then  we  saw  them  row  past  the  point 
of  Pounta,  out  of  the  harbor.  We  wanted  to  see  if  they 
would  come  back  but  they  never  did." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"Two  hours  or  more,  I  guess." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  to  tell  me  sooner?" 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  261 

**No,  it  could  not  have  been  so  long,"  the  boy  stam- 
mered. "One  hour — just  one  hour — no,  less  than  an 
hour — a  little  while — just  a  little  while  ago. ' ' 

Mr.  Munachaki  made  an  angry  move  to  lay  his  pipe 
in  the  comer  of  the  room.    The  boy  ran. 

Basil,  the  son  of  the  widow  of  Markos,  about  three 
hundred  paces  ahead  of  the  other  boy,  was  running  with 
the  eagerness  of  a  boy  having  some  good,  or  some  bad 
news  to  circulate.  If  it  is  good  news,  they  run  to  get 
a  tip  from  the  interested  person ;  if  it  is  bad  news,  they 
run  to  enjoy  watching  the  unfortunate  person's  em- 
barrassment. He  stopped,  panting,  under  the  piazza  of 
the  captain  of  the  schooner,  where  he  had  seen  the  open 
door  of  a  brightly  lighted  room,  and  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  voice: 

"Uncle,  your  rowboat  is  gone!" 

Basil  had  not  had  the  courage  to  enter  the  coffee 
house  to  tell  his  news  to  Mr.  Monachaki ;  but  seeing  that 
his  chum  had  done  this  with  impunity,  and  considering 
that  the  captain's  heavy  cane  could  not  reach  him  from 
the  piazza,  he  had  plucked  up  courage  to  run  ahead  of 
his  friend,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  a  news  carrier. 

Captain  Kyriakos  was  still  at  the  table  nibbling  at  one 
thing  or  other,  as  a  stimulant  to  another  drink,  in  the 
expert  manner  of  a  sailor  who  has  just  come  home  and 
is  eager  to  prolong  and  analyze  this  rare  bit  of  happi- 
ness.   He  heard  the  voice  and  walked  out  on  the  piazza : 


262  MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 

"What  is  that?" 

"Your  boat's  gone!" 

"Who  has  gone  with  it?" 

"Mathios.  son  of  Malamos." 

"And  who  is  Mathios,  son  of  Malamos?" 

"The  son  of  the  wife  of  Malamos  Kalioras,  I  say." 

"Where  is  he  going  with  it?" 

"Out  of  the  harbor." 

"Is  he  alone?" 

"He  is  gone  with  a  woman." 

"With  a  woman?"  Captain  Kyriakos  was  surprised. 
"What  woman?" 

The  boy  remained  silent  and  took  preliminary  pre- 
cautions to  hide  under  the  piazza. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  me  the  news  sooner?"  shouted 
the  captain. 

But  the  boy  disappeared  around  the  comer  and  the 
captain  could  hear  his  steps  on  the  pavement  as  he  ran 
away  at  full  speed. 

"That  devil  of  a  cabin  boy  must  have  got  drunk  again 
somewhere  and  left  that  boat  to  shift  for  itself." 

Captain  Kyriakos  reached  this  conclusion  in  mono- 
logue, and  immediately  sent  men  to  look  for  the  culprit. 
After  much  vain  searching  through  the  various  wine 
shops  of  the  market  place,  they  found  him,  at  last,  in 
an  out-of-the-way  shop  at  the  end  of  the  town. 

The  captain  asked  two  of  his  friends,  who  had  been 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  263 

with  him  at  his  table,  to  borrow  a  boat  of  some  sort 
in  order  to  row  out  to  the  schooner,  and  let  down  from 
its  deck  the  gig,  a  large  rowboat  with  six  oars.  He  did 
not  seem  to  care  so  much  for  the  woman  who  had  eloped 
or  for  the  lucky  young  man  who  had  gone  with  her,  as 
he  did  for  his  new,  neat  and  well-built  felouka.  He 
also  asked  them  to  mobilize  two  or  three  boatmen  and 
to  hasten  in  pursuit  of  the  elopers. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Monaehaki  had  been  informed  who 
the  owner  of  the  stolen  boat  was,  and  presented  himself 
with  a  sad  countenance  at  the  captain's  home. 

"Can  you  come  aboard  the  barge  yourself?"  asked 
Captain  Kyriakos,  on  becoming  acquainted  with  the  hus- 
band of  the  eloping  wife — for,  of  course,  everyone  in- 
tepreted  the  event  as  a  case  of  elopement. 

To  go  with  the  scamhavia  was  exactly  what  Mr,  Mona- 
ehaki had  been  wishing  for.  He  was  afraid  to  stay  in 
the  little  town,  a  prey  to  his  anxious  thoughts;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  by  taking  part  in  the  pursuit  he 
would  be  able  to  lessen  his  agony.  He  had  confidence 
in  Lalio.  She  had  said  herself  that  she  was  incapable 
of  betraying  his  honor.  But  who  can  tell?  Who  can 
fathom  the  mysteries  of  a  woman's  temper?  He  knew 
she  was  delicate,  inclined  to  be  a  dreamer,  and  a  prey 
to  homesickness.  But  how  could  he  make  other  people 
understand  such  things?  Pity  him  who  falls  into  a  pit 
of  water,  however  clean  the  water  may  be.  Other  people 
may  help  you  out  but  they  will  not  fail  to  ridicule  you. 


264  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

Still  he  was  as  sure  of  his  Lalio  as  any  man  could 
be  sure  of  his  wife.  Prom  the  time  when  he  used  to 
visit  her  father's  house  as  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
family,  he  had  known  Lalio ;  he  would  take  her  on  his 
lap,  rock  her  and  kiss  her.  She  was  three  years  old 
then  and  he  was  thirty.  When  she  was  five,  he  would 
bring  her  candies  as  presents  without  calculating  on 
his  part  and  without  ever  suspecting  what  was  going  to 
happen  in  the  future.  From  the  time  when  Lalio,  still 
lisping,  called  him  "Uncle  Monachaki"  to  the  time  when 
she  became  his  wife,  and  still  continued  to  call  him 
"Uncle  Monachaki"  he  had  studied  her  as  a  child,  as  a 
young  lady,  and  as  a  woman ;  so  he  knew  well  that  more 
than  any  other  woman  Lalio  lived  with  her  head  and 
her  nerves. 

Half  an  hour  passed  before  the  two  sailors  whom  Cap- 
tain Kyriakos  wanted  could  be  persuaded  to  leave  their 
houses.  Another  half  hour  was  spent  in  finding  a  boat, 
boarding  the  schooner  and  letting  down  the  gig  into  the 
sea.  Another  half  hour  passed  before  they  could  mobi- 
lize any  boatmen  or  fishermen  from  the  wharf.  Their 
boats  could  not  be  considered  for  the  pursuit  because 
they  were  too  heavy  and  had  only  two  or,  at  the  most, 
four  oars.  A  lot  of  time  had  to  be  wasted  before  they 
could  reach  an  understanding.  At  last  six  of  them  did  \ 
board  the  scamhavia.  Mr.  Monachaki  was  the  seventh 
man,  and  he  took  his  place  at  the  rudder. 

Rowing  strenuously,  they  reached  the  open  sea;  but 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  265 

then  how  could  they  find  the  felouka?  The  sea  may- 
chat  like  a  woman,  but  can  also  be  as  stubborn  as  a 
woman  in  keeping  a  secret.  If  you  could  not  detect 
any  traces  of  alien  kisses  on  the  lips  of  a  woman,  so 
you  could  not  detect  traces  of  the  elusive  boat  on  the 
endless  expanse  of  the  blue  sea. 

"Who  can  tell,"  thought  Mr.  Monachaki.  **Love  be- 
guiles and  youth  is  easily  deceived."  How  could  he 
know  whether  she  had  not  sinned  already?  He  had 
told  her  once  that  she  would  be  safe  near  him  because 
an  old  husband  can  also  be  a  father  to  a  young  wife; 
and  she  had  answered  that  she  would  be  safe  near  him 
even  if  she  meant  to  do  wrong.  Both  were  right ;  Mona- 
chaki saw  that  now,  when  they  were  apart ;  and  even  if 
she  were  a  thousand  times  innocent,  the  world  would 
condemn  her;  but  if  she  was  near  him  she  would  al- 
ways be  honorable  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  though  she 
might  be  a  thousand  times  guilty.  Like  the  princess  in. 
the  old  legend,  if  she  were  to  pass  the  ordeal  of  the 
bow,  the  arrow  would  hardly  touch  her  finger  tips. 

The  felouka  was  moving  between  the  two  islands  on 
the  open  sea.  The  kindly  spirit  of  the  sea  brought  a 
helpful  current  to  its  keel,  and  a  favorable  breeze  blew 
softly  on  its  stern.  Its  cool  breath  gave  strength  to  the 
arms  and  shoulders  of  the  young  man,  and  braced  the 
soft  muscles  of  the  young  woman.  They  rowed  like 
expert  oarsmen.     The  light  oars  did  not  seem  to  tire 


266  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

them,  and  they  had  already  reached  the  second  half  of 
their  watery  way. 

The  crew  of  the  barge  first  caught  sight  of  the  felouka 
only  when  they  approached  the  Neck  Point 

*' What's  that?" 

"The  felouka." 

Mr.  Monachaki  turned  his  head  to  the  left: 

**Ah,  that  is  it." 

* '  Who  knows  ?  I  don 't  believe  it  can  be  it, ' '  said  one 
of  the  sailors,  who  wished  to  avoid  the  additional  labor 
and  annoyance  of  pursuing  the  distant  boat. 

**I  am  sure  that's  the  boat,"  said  another,  whose 
curiosity  made  him  intent  upon  seeing  this  sea  drama 
to  its  end,  and  upon  catching  the  boat  with  the  eloping 
lovers. 

"That  is  the  boat,"  concluded  Mr.  Monachaki,  "let  us 
turn  that  way,  boys.    I'll  steer  to  leeward." 

"Where  are  they  going,  that  way?'* 

* '  To  St.  Nicholas ;  you  see  they  have  taken  the  shortest 
way  and  we  have  been  wearing  out  our  shoulders  all 
this  time  for  nothing." 

"Let  us  turn,  boys,"  shouted  Mr.  Monachaki. 
"Quick!  some  of  you  back  water,  so  that  I  may  turn 
to  leeward." 

The  six  men  at  the  oars  had  stopped  rowing  and  the 
barge  was  going  by  its  own  momentum.  But  Mr.  Mona- 
chaki was  impatient  over  the  time  they  had  been  wast- 
ing: 


SHE   THAT   WAS   HOMESICK  267 

''Back  water,  boy,  I  say!  Turn  that  way,  to  lee- 
ward." 

But  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him.  A  council  waa 
held  in  the  middle  of  the  open  sea.  Some  were  of  the 
opinion  that  they  should  go  on ;  others  thought  that  they 
should  turn  northward  towards  the  felouka.  Finally 
the  majority  won,  electrified  by  expectancy  of  the  en- 
joyable scene  they  might  witness. 

They  turned  the  prow  to  the  left  and  resumed  rowing. 
Their  strength  was  renewed  and  refreshed.  Only  the 
barge  was  three  times  as  far  from  the  harbor,  which  was 
their  goal,  as  the  little  boat;  and  though  it  was  pro- 
pelled by  a  crew  three  times  the  size  of  the  other  boat, 
it  was  five  times  as  bulky  and  its  displacement  was 
three  times  as  great. 

Mathios  immediately  noticed  the  sudden  turning  of 
the  barge. 

*'See,'*  he  cried,  "they  are  after  us." 

"They  may  try  to  catch  us  now,"  Lalio  shouted  joy- 
fully. "It  seems  to  me  they  are  farther  away  from  us 
than  we  are  from  land." 

"Much  farther.    But  they  have  many  oars." 

"We  have  a  lot  of  strength,  too." 

With  these  words  she  redoubled  her  efforts  at  the 

oar. 

For  a  whole  hour  the  contest  continued  along  the 
coast,  while  the  pale  moon  slowly  sank  in  the  west  and 
from  the  farms  that  studded  the  valley  and  the  hill- 


268  MODERN   GREEK   STORIES 

sides,  the  chanticleers  crowed  their  second  call.  It  was 
the  game  of  the  terrible  octopus  with  its  long  arms  pur- 
suing pilchard,  or  of  the  playful  dolphin  diving  after 
needle  fish.  The  scamhavia  moved  with  pompous  mon- 
otony, like  a  strong  hideous  shark,  while  the  oars  creaked 
rhythmically  in  their  forked  iron  tholepins  at  each 
stroke. 

The  felouka  glided  over  the  waves  like  a  cork,  with 
a  ripple  as  light  as  the  sound  of  a  kiss,  while  with 
its  playful  oars  it  pushed  behind  it  the  waters  which 
caressed  it  and  escorted  it,  in  front  and  behind,  like  a 
guard  of  honor  preceding  and  following  a  royal  chariot. 
One  might  think  that  invisible  Tritons  were  carrying  it 
upon  the  face  of  the  waves  so  that  it  might  not  lose 
speed  with  its  keel  under  water. 

However,  it  was  clear  that  the  barge  was  gradually 
gaining.  The  race  was  long  and  arduous  but  the  barge 
came  nearer  and  nearer.  At  last  the  felouka  approached 
the  beach,  and  Mathios  had  the  satisfaction  of  running 
his  boat  first  on  the  shallow  sands. 

*'May  we  ever  have  as  good  a  trip  as  this!"  Lalio 
shouted  gaily.  Then  she  rose,  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  at  the  sight  of  the  little  chapel  of  St.  Nicholas, 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  and  sprang  on  the  beach 
without  wetting  more  than  her  heels.  Mathios  jumped 
after  her  and  pulled  up  the  felouka.  The  scambavia  was 
now  only  twenty  yards  from  the  beach. 

The  young  man  was  eager  to  accompany  Lalio  to  the 


SHE   THAT  WAS  HOMESICK  269 

village.  He  suspected  that  the  crew  of  the  barge  would 
continue  their  chase  on  land,  too,  and  somehow  he  felt 
happy  for  that  very  reason.  Lalio's  last  confession 
about  her  lover  who  was  drowned  in  the  Black  Sea  was 
not  a  sufficient  antidote  for  his  misgivings.  Evil  fore- 
bodings disturbed  him  and  he  thought  that  a  woman 
who  had  forgotten  her  drowned  lover  to  marry  an  old 
man,  was  also  capable  of  abandoning  old  age  for  a 
third  one,  who  might  live  in  her  home  village.  But  if 
they  should  be  pursued  on  land,  too,  she  would  have  to 
depend  on  his  help ;  they  would  have  to  reach  her  village 
together  and  then — oh  joy — their  love  would  be  con- 
secrated by  land  and  sea. 

Suddenly  the  voice  of  Mr.  Monachaki,  standing  up  in 
the  moonlight  on  the  barge's  stem,  was  heard  shout- 
ing in  the  silence  of  the  night: 

*'Lalio!    Ho,  Lalio!" 

Lalio  stood  thoughtful  for  a  moment  with  head  down. 
Then  she  shouted  back: 

''Yes,  Uncle  Monachaki?" 

"Do  you  want  to  see  your  parents,  my  sweetheart? 
That  is  quite  right.  Wait  a  moment.  I  will  go  with 
you.     You  might  find  it  hard,   my  love,   if  you  go 

alone." 

"Just  as  you  say,  Uncle  Monachaki,"  Lalio  answered 
without  any  sign  of  embarassment. 

The  young  man  stood  beside  her,  aghast,  unable  to 
understand  her,  and  somewhat  afraid  for  himself. 


270 


MODERN   GREEK    STORIES 


**You  can  go  back  with  the  barge,  Mathios,  my  boy,'* 
said  Lalio,  with  sincere  emotion.  "It  is  a  pity  that  I 
am  older  than  you.  If  Uncle  Monachaki  was  dead,  I 
might  marry  you.*' 


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